Behind the Curtain
by NightOwl22
Summary: The murder of a prominent politician casts a shadow over the Winfield House and begins to unearth ghosts from Harry's past that are coming back to haunt her. As her relationship with Dempsey grows closer, she'll struggle to exorcise the demons that threaten to destroy it, while her partner ventures into the lion's den in a dangerous undercover mission to clear her family name.
1. The Return

_Hello again! Thank you for all the comments and feedback on the previous fic. That one was supposed to be a short, stand-alone piece, but since some of you felt like I left the relationship between D &M kind of "in the air", I decided to take the plunge and write the continuation into a much longer, plot-based story. It is not necessary to have read "The Bittersweet Taste of Betrayal" to read this one, as it can be easily followed regardless._

 _Once again, I appreciate all your comments. I don't think I would've ended up writing this story without your encouragement. I would also like to thank all of the other writers in this fandom for keeping this universe so alive._

 _In any case, I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it, so…_

 _Happy Thursday!_

* * *

 **Prologue**

 _She stood before him shaking with a mixture of rage and fear. The rain outside had intensified. It hit the windows of the flat with an angry tempo that matched the rhythm of their heartbeats. Other than that, there was just bitter silence. He inched closer and she took two uncertain steps back, bumping into the naked wall of the small hallway._

" _Harry…" Dempsey breathed._

 _Eyes wide and voice trembling, she spoke the stern warning with resolute conviction._

" _If you touch me again, I'll kill you!"_

* * *

 ** _The Return_**

The silver haired gentleman sat alone in his personal sanctuary. He leaned back on the leather chair and regarded the collection of books neatly placed and categorized on the tall shelves all around him. He'd just come back from his morning walk, showered, got dressed and settled down in his study to have breakfast and read the newspaper. He liked routines, followed the same one every single morning. Order, after all, was the only way to combat the absurd world he'd come to despise.

A well-manicured finger hooked around the handle of a plain, porcelain teacup and the scent of Earl Grey reached his nostrils. Hot, rich, just like he liked it. He took a dainty sip, savoring the spicy warmth before setting the cup back on its saucer.

It was a new day, a new week, a new month… A wrong had been righted, and the world kept spinning in that same senseless way it always had.

Only, today, it would make just a bit more sense.

* * *

The alarm buzzer went off at seven thirty sharp, but James Dempsey had already been semi-awake for about ten minutes. His mind had been wandering in that blissful space between sleep and wakefulness where a dream is malleable enough to be shaped into one's innermost desires. He allowed himself to be transported to that ethereal place, enjoying every second that passed in a surreal succession of time, like those melting clocks he saw in a magazine once. A picture perfect world where all his fears and doubts dissolved, and his wishes magically became a reality…

But, alas, the world was not measured by the elasticity of the Dalian brush, and the moment the minute hand hit that six on the real clock, those delightful images filled with smooth skin and soft, golden hair evaporated into thin air along with his smile.

 _Damn!_

The cacophony of the alarm clock dragged him back to the mundane reality of his bedroom, and he let out a groan of annoyance at such an unwelcomed intrusion.

But then he remembered what day it was…

Today he was due back at work from a week of paid leave after having led the most successful arms dealing crackdown in recent decades. The ring had been organized by Andrew Bennet, a British born linchpin with strong connections to the U.S.S.R, and who'd managed to elude every single police agency in Europe for longer than anybody cared to admit. And all it took to nab him was the tedious review of seven years' worth of tracking documents, ten months of active surveillance, a scheme to lure the group to an abandoned site in Lambeth, and a raid involving a wide range of law enforcement agencies all acting under SI10's strict directives.

Nobody, however, had expected the malevolent bastard to plague the building with enough active explosives to flatten half a city block. Fortunately, everyone had vacated the place by the time the blast turned the building into rubble. Dempsey himself had fled the site just in the nick of time, and save for a couple of scrapes and scars, and a nearly dislocated shoulder, he'd managed to escape the collapsing building unscathed. But not before retrieving enough evidence from the chosen _rendez vous_ spot to put that asshole away for several lifetimes. As for Dempsey's partner, Sgt Makepeace, she'd done a pretty good job coordinating the various arrests with the rest of the team and the local constabulary.

All in all a slam dunk.

 _Leave it to SI10 to get the job done_ , Dempsey thought throwing the sheets to the side and getting up.

He stepped into the shower and tried to limit the use his left arm as he used a plain soap bar to lather his body. He massaged his neck and injured shoulder under the hot water to ease the morning stiffness, a ritual that had worked wonders this past week. The pain had been somewhat excruciating at first, especially in the mornings, but now it was pretty manageable and in no way was he in need of any painkillers to keep the discomfort under control. Even though the doctor had prescribed some industrial strength shit, he figured he was better off without it. The bottle still sat on his kitchen counter completely full, except for the two tablets he'd taken the night Makepeace stayed over. She had insisted so much upon him taking the stuff he'd finally obliged just to keep her nagging butt off his back. If she were to find out those would be the last two tablets he'd take in a week, she would chew his ass off!

Dempsey smiled at the thought of his partner's wrath. If she only knew how much that cool fire of hers turned him on, she'd be a hell of a lot more restrained. Although, truth be told, he was a little anxious about seeing her again. Things had cooled off between them during the week they'd been apart. They had spoken a couple of times over the phone while she spent time at her dad's estate, but the conversations had been casual, the subjects limited to how his injuries were healing, about work and even, for God's sake, the weather!

Neither of them had mentioned the kiss. The _mind-fucking-blowing_ kiss they had shared that last night at the office. Just thinking about it made Dempsey's blood rush to places he had no time to tend to at the moment so, jaw clenched, he turned the hot water to freezing cold and, after several seconds of icy frustration, the situation became a little more manageable. Mission accomplished, he turned off the shower as goose bumps began forming on his skin, and yanked the towel from the rack.

He scratched his chin, fingers rasping against the four day old beard, and noticed how blunt the blades on the Gillette razor he kept by the sink had become. With a dejected sigh, he made a mental note to stop by the corner shop to get a set of razors and, right, some shaving cream, he realized as he shook the almost empty can. He snatched the electric shaver off its base and flipped the switch to see if it was properly charged. The machine woke up with a gruff sound and a steady vibration.

It would have to do.

The earlier steam from the shower had fogged up his mirror, so he swiped his right hand in a circular motion to clear a small section while he moved the shaver over his cheek with his left one, feeling satisfied that the mobility on that arm was nearly back to normal. The bruising on his face had almost disappeared too, and only a small patch of yellowish skin framed his left eye and cheekbone.

His mind traveled to the day of the explosion once again and, more specifically, to his partner's reaction to his bold decision to go back into the building. It had never been his intention to scare her. And she _had_ been sacred. Shitless. A twinge of guilt needled his mind remembering the raw fear in her confession as she cried in his arms. He'd felt like such a jerk for making her feel that way. If there was one person in this world Dempsey would never intentionally hurt, that was Harry.

But the stunt she had pulled to 'protect' him… Deep down he knew Harry would've never have gone through with it, yet even if she'd been bluffing, her determination had shocked the crap out of him! He never expected her to care so damn much—and she really did care, about _him_! That night, confusion had turned to surprise, and then to the realization that there was clearly something deeper going on between them. Apparently the best partner he'd ever had also happened to be the one broad who could make his world spin.

And then she'd left the following morning without so much as a word, leaving behind just a note. A note, he didn't really know _how_ to interpret. She had just taken off and, for the entire week, the mere thought of her lips, her voice, her scent could just…

 _Down, boy!_

He forced his mind to make a sharp U-turn from where it was heading, and turned off the machine with the same dogged finality as the direction of his thoughts. Content with the closeness of the shave, although not as content as if he'd used an actual razor, he proceeded to brush his teeth with an overabundance of energy.

Feeling fully awake, he liberally applied some of the pretentious aftershave Harry had gotten him on his last birthday. It smelled and felt expensive, plus it came in a fancy crystal container that looked more like an aged old liquor than an aftershave. He remembered wondering whether she was being nice or, maybe, she just simply disliked his regular dash of _Old Spice_ and it was her subtle way of telling him to switch brands. Of course, he shouldn't be the one to complain about lousy birthday gifts. On her last birthday he had gotten her a gigantic chocolate bunny with a cracked ear—a reject from an Easter egg hunt just a couple of weeks prior. He was still shocked she hadn't stuffed the damned thing down his throat when he had propped it on her desk with an exuberant 'happy birthday, princess!' Instead, she had given him a clipped smile and a cool, 'Oh, how very nice of you, _Lef_ tenant!' in that crisp, British accent that always sent his testosterone on a wild rampage. Then she'd put it aside, and turned her undivided attention to the computer screen once again.

He really ought to work on his gift-giving skills, he thought with a smile.

Running the same towel he'd just used on his body through his damp hair, he walked into the room and sent another quick glance at the clock on his nightstand.

 _Great! He was already running late!_

Dempsey let out a tight curse under his breath and threw the towel unceremoniously on the bed. He quickly put on a pair of well-worn blue jeans over his boxer shorts, a white button up shirt, his grey Nikes, and adjusted the leather holster around his shoulders, wincing slightly when his left arm protested with the range of movement. Then, taking out his Magnum from the small drawer of his nightstand, he checked it to make sure there was a full round in the chamber, snapped it shut and holstered it with the ease that comes with years of experience.

Not five minutes later, he was out the door, Merc keys in his hand and a bug of anticipation playing snooker inside his gut.

* * *

S.I. 10 Headquarters

It was early Monday morning and Detective Sgt Harriet Makepeace was already sorting through the various documents that had piled up on her tray during her week long holiday. The lazy days she'd spent at her family estate had helped shake off some of the stress of their latest case, and by the end of the week she was already itching to get back to the office. It was more than just the love for her work, though. There were personal matters she needed to tend to. Such matters, she supposed, were to blame for the flock of frantic butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach at that very moment.

She, of course, always cherished her visits back home. Three of her father's old colleagues had also spent the week at Winfield Hall while she'd been there: Charles Shaw, Theodore Bishop and Tiberius North. Even Uncle Duffy had made a brief stop last weekend for some grouse hunting.

She had known Charles Shaw since she was a child. A prominent MP for the labour party, he'd been a great source of comfort after her mother's passing. She'd dare say he was like a second father to her, just like Freddy had been one to his daughter, Elisabeth. Harry and Elisabeth had been inseparable as children, had their share of boy related spats as teenagers until, at some point in their adult lives, they'd just drifted apart.

For the most part, her father's guests—often members of Britain's upper crust—aimed to get away from London's hustle and bustle and found respite in the familiar serenity of the countryside. Lord Theodore Bishop and Tiberius North, Earl of Shrewsbury, were two of such guests. They had spent the week in the opposite wing of the mansion while Harry was there, and she had only crossed paths with them at dinner time, or on the rare occasion she'd decided to have tea at the solarium.

Tiberius North was a world traveller. He had spent part of his youth roaming through Africa, hunting for big game and bringing back trophies and ethnic artefacts that he would display on his various estates, all of which resembled a luxurious lodge out of a Kenyan safari. Always charming despite bursting with arrogance, his wide compilation of tales bordering the implausible would liven up a party more effectively than the most skilled magician. Even Harry couldn't help being enthralled by his superb knack for storytelling.

Lord Bishop, on the other hand, was a quiet and reserved man. He had lost his only son to suicide almost sixteen years ago, event that had left a bitter emotional wound from which he'd never really recovered. He was a stern high court judge with a judicial eye and a critical nature and who, for some odd reason, refused to leave the bench despite having jumped over the age of retirement for almost a decade. He prided himself in knowing all of T.S Eliot poems by heart, and would often quote them aloud whether the situation warranted it or not. Harry had never really liked him. Much less after the night of the blackout, just two days before his son's death...

She frowned, shaking out of her musings, and sent a quick glance at her watch expecting her partner to walk through the door at any moment. That spark of anticipation ignited once again in her lower belly, and she turned to the first report on the pile to quench it. Except for the two newest members of the team who were quietly filing away last weeks' paperwork in the far corner cabinet, she had been alone in the office all morning. The youngsters would lift their heads occasionally and regard her with the utmost respect, which Harry decided was an improvement over the curious stares she had got when they had first joined S.I.10 the month before. She had cordially greeted them when she arrived, and they had replied with a polite 'good morning, Sergeant' and immediately buried their noses in the filing cabinet once again.

DS Chas Jarvis, the boss' right hand man, had flashed by the office earlier just to retrieve some files from the Guv's office. He'd informed Harry that Chief Superintendent Spikings had been in an important meeting with the Commissioner since the early morning hours and they were both getting ready for a press conference, but he didn't elaborate on the nature of such meeting. He had left in a whirlwind just as he had appeared, leaving Harry to ponder what could Spikings be possibly feeding the press before the crack of dawn on a Monday. Whatever it was seemed to be serious enough to involve the Commissioner which was never a good sign.

Their latest case had been set in motion in a similar fashion, with the Commissioner putting the screws to the Chief and SI10 to get results on a case very few agencies had dared to tackle, and none had managed to break. Her mind derailed to the closing of that particular case, and how a series of bad decisions had placed her and her partner in a rather delicate position. Fortunately, after a heart-to-heart talk with Dempsey, she had come to her senses and decided not to hand Spikings a form with a laundry list of charges deeming her partner unfit for field duty. Unfortunately, she had done something perhaps even _more_ stupid. Throwing all caution to the wind, she had initiated a kiss that had led to a steamy, and completely unprecedented, make out session between her and Dempsey right on the spot where she was now seating.

Her cheeks began to burn, just as they did every time the memory of how Dempsey's lips had felt against her own had sneaked into her mind during her stay at Winfield Hall. And when Freddy had noticed her flushed skin, she'd simply blamed her proximity to the fireplace, or the expensive chardonnay, or the exertion after an evening of equestrian activities. And, although she had talked to Dempsey over the phone a couple of times, pulse racing and chest tight, their conversations had been cordial at best, and even a bit detached considering their level of intimacy on the night in question. Perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised. After all, theirs had always been a complicated, hard-edged relationship, filled with raw emotion, denied sexual desire and a battle of wills.

Harry had been so engrossed in her daydreaming, she almost jumped out of her skin when she heard a dark, mellow voice behind her ear whispering 'Mornin', princess'. The sudden jolt set her heart on a frenzy as the initial shock merged into another feeling not quite as easily to identify.

She got a whiff of his aftershave, the musky scent lingered for a fragile moment before he plopped down on his chair across from her desk with an enigmatic smile. He was looking much better than he did a week ago. Clean shaven, the bruising on his face seemed to have faded almost completely, and he appeared serene and well rested. Attractive in that rough, untamed way Harry had fought so hard to find irresistible.

Dempsey propped his feet on the desk and leaned back on the chair, exuding his usual carefree attitude. He lifted his chin in silent greeting towards the two rookies in the back of the room, and began sorting through a stack of mail.

"Did ya have a nice week?" he asked cheerfully. "How's your old man?"

"It was rather nice and Freddy is doing well," she replied, reaching for the stapler and intent on keeping the conversation casual. "He sends his regards. And how was _your_ week off, Lieutenant?"

"Well, y'know, the typical," Dempsey shrugged. "Went club hoppin', got into a coupla bar fights, woke up drunk a few times by the river bank…"

Harry raised an eyebrow of contempt at him, unamused. He was clearly pulling her leg, she just didn't find his brand jocularity particularly funny at the moment. Her expression must have been one of personified disdain. One that made Dempsey break into a fit of soft laughter.

"Relax, babe," he said, struggling to keep a straight face. "Followed the doctor's orders. Didn't do much. Watched lots of TV and had canned chicken soup comin' outta my ears." He kept shuffling through the envelopes slowly, his attention square on the task as he added almost as an afterthought. "Could've really used some company, you know..."

"Why, were there no willing bodies at the local pub this past week?"

The words had left her mouth without thought or warning. It was as if years of quick, witty comebacks had been set on autopilot, and by the time she found the regret button inside her brain, it was already too late. Dempsey's hands had frozen mid-shuffle. His eyes trailed up to hers, all traces of humour now completely vanished from his face and replaced by something cold and foreign.

"I'm sorry," she quickly apologized. "That was rather rude of me."

"'Rather rude'?" he repeated dryly. Dempsey sat up on the chair and sent a quick glance to the two murmuring boys in the back of the room who were still hard at work flipping through their mountain of ready to file reports. He then leaned forward, his eyes drilling into hers. "I ain't gonna play games here, princess," he said in a quiet, yet stern voice. "We gotta talk. No more dancin' 'round the bush." And, despite the term of endearment, his voice had been dead serious.

Harry felt the weight of his stare pinning her to the spot. There was a moment of fleeting uncertainty that dawdled between them. She offered him a weak nod, not quite sure how to interpret his words, much less the sudden downturn of his mood.

 _Had she just blown the whole thing?_

"Not right now," she said, keeping her voice just above a whisper as if the entire building had the ability to eavesdrop into their conversation. "Not in _here_."

It was Dempsey's turn to nod, his expression unreadable. He let out a heavy sigh, the stack of mail now forgotten over the organized chaos that was his desk. Frowning, his jaw jutting a bit, he looked away. Using a much softer tone, he began, "Harry—"

The door swung open and Chas, looking a bit warn and tired, leaned forward to call their attention while keeping a tight grip on the handle.

"Oh, good! You're both here! Spikings wants you down in interrogation room B right away."

"New case?" Harry asked, struggling to keep her voice even.

"A big one," Chas replied. "It's all over the papers. Haven't you read the headlines?"

Neither Dempsey nor Makepeace were in the mood to offer an answer. Deciding the question was rhetorical, they just let Chas fill in the silence.

"We got a dead diplomat, one shady witness and enough red tape to cover the entire Houses of Parliament."

"Oh, good! Another one of those 'look but don't touch' cases," Dempsey groaned in disgust. "So who's the stiff?"

"His name's Charles Shaw. A seventy-two year old MP with strong ties to some members of the royal family."

Harry's head snapped up.

 _No, it couldn't be…_

She shifted on the chair, feeling a spider with icy legs crawling up her spine.

"Spikings insists on the utmost discretion on this one," Chas continued. "The circumstances around the murder are somewhat… peculiar."

"Aren't they always?" Dempsey rolled his eyes and turned to his partner, a quizzical frown forming on his forehead upon meeting her eyes. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she blurted out. "Uhm, excuse me, I need to…"

But she didn't finish the statement. She just dashed out the room and into the corridor, closing her eyes as she leaned against the pale yellow wall for support. Dempsey stepped out a couple of seconds behind her and approached her slowly. She could sense his bafflement through the poignant silence.

"I'm okay," she assured him.

"No, you're not," he said, resting his hand on the wall just above her shoulder and completely invading her personal space. In a quiet voice, he added, "You wanna tell me about it, or are you gonna make me guess?"

He was too close. Not only physically, he was somehow managing to cloud her thoughts. She was trapped. Harry knew from personal experience there wouldn't be any easy way of thwarting his concern. He had gone into 'overprotective mode' and right now she didn't have the will or the energy to out-stubborn him.

"I know the victim," she confessed, struggling to keep her voice steady. "He was visiting my father last week while I was there. Left the day before I did. His daughter and I used to be good friends."

" _Jesus!"_ Dempsey whispered.

"He said we should meet for tea sometime this week, that he missed seeing us girls together…" Harry kept talking, feeling more dazed by the second. "Oh, God! I can't believe he's _dead_!"

Dempsey placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. She could tell he wanted to comfort her but didn't quite know how. Their last hug had ended up spinning way out of control, so perhaps keeping a safe distance now wouldn't be such a bad idea.

"Maybe you oughta sit this one out," Dempsey offered softly.

"No!" she snapped turning to him. "I want to get to the bottom of this!"

"Are you guys coming?" Chas called from the office down the hallway.

Dempsey's eyes fixed on Harry's, a silent query answered by the determination found behind those clear, blue depths. He offered her a tight smile, respecting her wishes, no further questions asked.

"We'll be right down, Chas," he replied, his focus still on his partner.

 **[TBC…]**


	2. Blind Witness

_Hello! I would like to thank everybody for all your kind feedback, follows and faves, it's really encouraging to see people are interested in the fic. From what I've read from your comments, some of you think that D &M's romantic involvement will be second to the main plotline but, as it turns out, their personal relationship happens to be very much a central part of it all. ;-)_

 _A very special thanks to Ostrich, who was my second set of eyes for EotB, and is back as beta helping me out with this one._

 _This one comes with a warning for strong language and adult situations._

 _Well, anyway. Enjoy and… Happy Thursday!_

* * *

 ** _Blind Witness_**

Isabel Morales didn't like the police. No matter what shape or size, cops made her nervous. The buzz from the opiate she'd been given the night before still lingered in her brain. It wouldn't be long until the effects wore off completely, faster each time. Her need for the stuff had been gradually increasing and, not too long from now, she would need another fix.

The room where she'd been sitting for the past half an hour had plastered walls of a nondescript yellowish, and a linoleum floor that had gone out of style about a decade ago with clear wear near the door. It had a mirror on one wall that was, undoubtedly, the window to a darkened room on the other side, from where the bulldog-faced douche and his brownnose lackey were probably watching her right now, not that the glass could have fooled a child. She stared right into it defiantly, her dark eyes boring into the glass even though all she could see was her own reflection. Her olive skin looked washed out under the artificial lighting, it highlighted her jet black hair giving it a bluish hue.

The minutes stretched as she shifted around, making the plastic chair squeak under her slender frame. She tried to ignore the steady hum from the fluorescent lights above her, which did nothing but aggravate the annoying, drug induced buzzing inside her head.

Her mind threw her back to a room very much like this one, ions ago and oceans away. She could still hear the voices of the deportation officers talking to each other as if she'd been invisible, discussing procedure as if the dozens of lives they kept in that facility were some sort of merchandise to be bartered. She had hated those heartless bastards! She hated them still. They had ripped her away from the only place she'd ever known just because she lacked the birthright the rest of her brothers and sisters had attained just by being born on the right side of that stupid border. But ten year-olds don't understand immigration policies. Scared to the bone, she had waited for the bus that would take her to a new country with nobody to care for her but her distant uncle, whom she'd never even met.

Now, seven years later and thousands of miles away, she was convinced she would've been so much better off on her own…

The door finally opened and two people came into the room: a tough looking guy and a pretty blonde. The man carried himself with an air of self-assurance, the gun under his armpit a scary reminder that she was dealing with the law, and how badly she was caught between a spade and the wall. There was something about him that Isabel found intimidating. It might have been the way he casually walked up to the chair across from her, or how he sat down as if he'd been in that very room a thousand times before or, maybe, it was the deceiving calmness in his eyes. She couldn't quite put a finger on what was _exactly_ about him that rubbed her up the wrong way.

The chick seemed to be the total opposite. The perfectly styled hair and elegant way she wore a simple pair of slacks with a white laced blouse made her look very sophisticated, like those women who advertised expensive perfumes in the magazines she liked to skim through at the _Silver House_. Even her poised posture hinted at her refined upbringing. There was a soothing quality to her stunning blue eyes that Isabel found comforting.

The mean-looking guy opened a folder and leafed through the documents within, taking charge of the situation while his colleague simply sat beside him, also focused on the stack of papers and pictures through which he shuffled in silence for almost a minute.

"I'm Lieutenant Dempsey," he finally said glancing up from the file. His voice was rich and commanding, yet he looked relaxed. "This is Sergeant Makepeace. We're gonna ask you some questions."

The girl's eyes fastened on him. A flicker of surprise flashed across them, and a sudden rush of unadulterated hatred began rolling through her in violent waves. Her fists clenched as she attempted to hide her rage behind a blank mask of indifference.

"What's your name?" he asked evenly, his deep voice grating on her nerves.

She held his stare, undaunted by the severity of his expression. Neither of them broke eye contact in a battle of wills that lasted for several seconds.

"Didja hear what I said?"

The staring contest continued, but no reply came forth. She had nothing to say to him.

"Look, kid, I ain't got all day," he said, his patience clearly slipping. "It's a very simple question. They get harder from here. So I suggest you get on board _fast_."

Still as a statue, Isabel kept observing him with concealed disgust. The more she heard him speak, the hotter her anger grew. Suddenly, she was back in the States, surrounded by immigration officers who didn't give a crap about her. She fished her thoughts out of the deep sea of her memories, flung them back to the present, and watched as the cop turned to his partner for a second. But the blonde was focusing intently on the picture of a man in the open file—an older dude who appeared to be dead.

A deep sigh seeped through his lips, and then he turned back to Isabel with a lopsided smile that held anything but humor. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

"¡ _Vete al carajo gringo cabrón!1"_ she spat, unable to contain her temper any longer.

One didn't have to speak the language to know she hadn't meant those words kindly. The cop's grin broadened, his eyebrows lifting in mock surprise.

"¿ _Besas a tu madre con esa boca_?2" he retorted, his accent thick as mud.

His pretty partner tore her eyes from the file to look at him, seemingly surprised. The unexpected reply had rendered Isabel silent once again, and the tough guy sat back on the chair smugly, the ball now clearly on her court.

"Fuck you!" she snarled, pushing the table so hard it slid back a few screeching inches.

"Charmin'," he quipped, then clicked his tongue once, "but we ain't even gone out on a date yet. Maybe we should, so you can tell me all about Charles Shaw, and how come he happened to end up dead in the same hotel room as your last job."

The girl frowned, confusion descending upon her ethnic features. He was examining her, giving her some time to think about what he'd just said, trying to bait her.

 _Fat chance!_

"Look, uh… María," he started to say, his tone casual. "Can I call you 'María'?"

"No. Can I call _you_ 'Asshole'?" she snarled.

What was it he said his name was? _Dempsey_? Yeah, that was it. Lieutenant Dempsey. Didn't matter. _Asshole_ suited him much better, she decided.

"Alright, kid, we don't got much time for bullshit," Dempsey continued, ignoring her jab. "So you either start talkin' right now, or we find your pimp and tell him what a great little snitch you've been. Business will go down the crapper faster than you can moan ' _dios_ ' in the throes of passion!"

The threat made Isabel slump back against the chair to consider her options. Both detectives had their eyes trained on her now, expecting an answer. The blonde chick hadn't said anything yet. They were obviously playing bad cop, good cop, and she was there to soften the blow when _Asshole_ got out of hand.

But the police didn't scare her nearly as much as the Brotherhood did...

Still, much as she hated it, what choice did she have but to lean on these two strangers? She had nowhere to go, no place to hide. The moment they released her from custody, she was dead. Isabel looked down at her hands, fear and impotence tilting the scale to the side of the law, for now.

"The name's Isabel," she mumbled, though it sounded more like a growl. Then, running a hand through a mop of black hair, she asked, "Got a cigarette?"

Dempsey and Makepeace exchanged a quick glance.

"Those things'll kill ya," Dempsey said lightly, and reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled out a pack of chewing gum. "Would you settle for some gum?"

"Chewing for hours's for cattle."

Makepeace tried to conceal the slight curving of her lips behind her fist. Noticing the subtle reaction, her partner sent a wounded glance in her direction. Isabel, on her part, was already tired of the confining room, the uncomfortable chair and the stupid questioning. She could've really used the nicotine.

"You're comin' down fast," Dempsey observed. He casually began to unwrap one of the gum pieces and popped it into his mouth. Chewing gingerly, he added, "Might help take the edge off, but suit yourself."

Isabel narrowed her eyes, her dislike for him growing by the second. "I don't do drugs."

Dempsey sent her a 'give me a break' look that made her want to jump across the table and rip his throat out.

"I _don't_ , gringo!"

"You're high right now," he answered, sounding almost bored.

If there was one thing she hated most in life, it was being scrutinized, and the cop was doing a thorough enough job, making her feel even more trapped in that small room. "Hey, is this gonna take all day?" she protested.

"Why?" Dempsey grinned condescendingly. "Is there someplace you gotta be?"

Visibly nervous, the girl folded her arms over her chest and sniffed. "Well, don't I get a lawyer or somethin'?"

"You haven't been charged with anythin'… _yet_."

The walls of the room started to close in on her. It was increasingly difficult to breathe. She wanted to scream, but that would've only given the gringo more ammunition. Instead, she inhaled deeply and tried to get rid of all her frustration in one long, drawn-out exhale.

"Where are you from, Isabel?" asked a softer voice.

The girl raised her eyes to the woman in front of her—a breath of fresh air. She seemed kinder, and Isabel felt instantly drawn to her.

"I was born in Ciudad Juarez," Isabel answered, not entirely comfortable talking to the lady cop, but a huge improvement over talking to her partner. "My parents crossed over to Texas when I was only two. Lived in Pecos for a while, then was sent back to Mexico." Her distinct southern US drawl was a sharp contrast to the detective's crisp, British one. Isabel had spoken quietly, her eyes fixed on her fingers, which kept drawing invisible lines over the surface of the table.

"How did you get all the way to England?" Dempsey asked.

Isabel's frown deepened, and the patterns on the table became bolder. "On a boat. Like the rest."

Makepeace turned to her partner with a faint nod, requesting silent permission to take over.

"How long have you been here?"

A small shrug. "Few weeks. A month. A little more, maybe."

"Are there more girls like you 'working' here?"

Although Makepeace's tone had been gentle, the line of questioning was making Isabel jittery. She quit the invisible doodling, folded her arms over her chest, and clammed up. Realizing she wasn't going to get many answers on that count, Makepeace decided to go in a different direction.

"Do you know the man in this picture?" she asked, gently pushing a black and white photo of the dead Charles Shaw towards the girl.

"No! I already told fatso and his minion!" she answered pointing her chin towards the double-sided mirror. "I ain't never seen that man in my life!"

"Then what the hell were you doin' in his hotel room the night he died?" Dempsey cut in curtly. When an answer wasn't forthcoming, he continued. "It says here they found you blindfolded and tied up to the four poster bed in his hotel suite. Is that what this man was into?"

"It's what most men are into," she said in a sensuous whisper, her dark eyes like laser pointers on him. "Aren't _you_?" An impish smile formed on her lips, her gaze shifting to Makepeace. "Or maybe I should ask you what gringo here's into, huh?"

"You didn't answer the question," Dempsey said, ignoring the salacious remark.

"You didn't neither," she challenged. The slight clench of gringo's jaw and the small twitch of blondie's eyebrow indicated that she'd somehow managed to get under their skin. Isabel knew how to take advantage of an opportunity when one presented itself, and went for the kill. "No shit!" she chuckled. "You guys doin' each other?"

"Cut the bullshit!" Dempsey warned. Yes, she had _definitely_ hit a nerve. "Did you solicit Shaw on the street or do you work for an escort service?"

"I don't work the streets," she hissed, as if the job were beneath her.

"Alright, sweetheart. You're really testin' my patience here. I'm gonna ask you nicely one last time, and then no more Mr. Nice Guy, you hear me?"

"Ooh, Lieutenant, I'm soooo scared," she mocked.

"Kid, stop testin' me!" Dempsey said, both his voice and his eyes suddenly dark and dangerous.

A shadow of fear descended upon her, and she bit her lower lip. The little, insecure teenager within surfaced from a lost corner of her soul. She wasn't sure if it had been the timber of the cop's voice or the coldness in his stare, but something told her not to mess with this man. She swallowed hard as Dempsey's question pierced through her tough façade.

"For the last time, who sent you to that room?"

"Look, I was dropped off there!" she cried. "They never take off the blindfold, okay? That's the way it works!"

Dempsey did a double take. "The way 'it' works? The way _what_ works? And who the hell's ' _they_ '?"

The blood had slowly drained from Isabel's face, and her eyes began to prick with angry tears. She had said too much already. If the Brotherhood were to find out… "Look, I can't tell you!"

"That's too bad," Dempsey said and pressed his lips tightly. "Oh, well! Guess we can always use you as bait…"

"No, wait!" Isabel said in a panic. "You can't do that! I… I can't go back out there!"

She didn't want to cry in front of the cops. She _couldn't!_

With the rage that comes from restrained frustration, Isabel pushed herself away from the table and stood up. She paced to the back of the room, finding safe haven against the far corner, crouching down as she turned away from them. Her tight shirt rose up to reveal the tanned skin of her lower back.

Dempsey approached her slowly, crouching down beside her. He hooked his finger on the waistline of her jeans, pulling them an inch lower down her back. She quickly swiveled away from his touch, pure rage all over her features.

"Hands off, _gringo_!"

But it was too late. Their eyes locked—fear on her part, realization on his.

' _He saw it!_ _How could she have been so careless?'_

 _S_ he squeezed her eyes tightly, cursing the tattoo that had just given her away.

Dempsey stood up slowly, turned to the double sided mirror and spoke directly into it. "Better arrange for a safe house as soon as possible." Then, talking to Makepeace, he added, "This girl's gonna need round the clock protection."

 **[TBC…]**

* * *

 _1 Go to hell you dirty Yank_

 _2 Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?_


	3. Too Close

_Hello! Thanks for all your comments and feedback._

 _ **A quick note** : I try to make the narrator switch from British style/spelling if told from Harry's POV, to American style/spelling (or, as someone from Britain might say, plain "bad spelling" ;P) when told from Dempsey's POV. Again, "try" being the operative word. If I ever default to American during a British character POV, please forgive me._

 _Once again, a special thanks to **Ostrich** and her sharp eye._

 _Happy Thursday!_

* * *

 **Too Close**

Traffic was light on the M2 in the middle of the afternoon. Dempsey drove at an easy speed, relaxed against the bucket seat of the Merc while Harry sat on the passenger seat beside him, absently looking through the windshield. She seemed to be deep in thought, supporting her head with her hand, elbow resting at the base of the window. It hadn't even been a day since their return to work and she was already looking tired, but that was not surprising under the circumstances.

Neither of them had told Spikings' about Harry's connection to the victim, nor had they mentioned they were now on their way to Winfield Hall to talk to her father as one of the few people who had seen Charles Shaw alive for the last time. He was bound to find out sooner or later, of course, and would surely hit the roof the moment he realized they both had conspired to hide such a critical piece of information from him. Still, if they could gather some facts before they were busted, they figured it was worth risking a slap on the wrist later.

The team's debriefing had lasted almost two hours, during which time, and given the nature of the case, Spikings had overemphasized the importance of discretion. Amazing how the media vultures managed to come out of the woodwork the moment tragedy struck and, thanks to the lack of foresight by a uniformed rookie and someone within the hotel staff who'd blabbed too much, they had already gotten their juicy scoop about last night's incident. As it was, the entire SI10 team was advised not to talk about it with anybody, standard procedure during a regular investigation, but especially imperative on this one.

Apparently, Major Damby had been made aware of the situation and, not only had he denied any involvement on the part of his clandestine group, but he'd claimed he had no knowledge of Charles Shaw ever engaging in this type of behavior prior to this incident.

 _So, where did that leave them?_ Dempsey pondered.

Given the viciousness behind the murder, they had ruled out a contract killing, leaning more towards the possibility of it being a crime of passion. Repeated stabbings, after all, were not usually perpetrated in cold blood lest dealing with the complex mind of a psychopath.

The sad truth was they were sorely lacking proper leads, and their only witness had just managed to raise more questions than answers. So, the moment the department meeting had been over, they'd made themselves scarce claiming they were going to put some much needed legwork into the case, and had hit the ground running before anybody could ask too many questions.

Now, on their way to Kent, Dempsey's stomach started to protest, and he realized he was starving. Having skipped lunch altogether, Harry offered him an apple from the stash of fruit she always kept in hand, which he devoured in a few hungry bites ten minutes into the drive while she daintily picked at a small bunch of grapes. Still chewing on the last bite, Dempsey threw the skinny core out the window over an arid stretch of land by the highway claiming that, since it was organic, it wasn't technically littering. Harry just rolled her eyes and continued staring out the window, sharing her last few grapes with him.

"Where did you learn Spanish?" she casually asked.

"Impressed, _señorita_?" Dempsey smiled, glancing at her through his Ray-Bans for a second. "Didn't know you had a bilingual partner, huh?"

"To be bilingual you'd have to speak at least _one_ language properly," she teased.

"Ouch!" He chuckled, failing to sound wounded. "Actually, I only know a coupla phrases here and there. Was partnered with a _Nuyorican_ for a while at the 34th precinct. Luis Ramos. Nice guy. He taught me a bunch of swearwords."

"I hate to break it to you, Dempsey, but what was spoken in that room earlier hardly sounded like Spanish."

"Again, _ouch_!"

"So what do you think she's so afraid of?" Harry frowned, the wheels inside her head already churning, working hard at a possible theory.

"You saw the tattoo," Dempsey replied. He was referring to a small pyramid encasing an eye—the all-seeing eye—which almost looked like an embossed stamp on the tanned skin of Isabel's back. "That was no ordinary tattoo, Harry. It appeared…" he swallowed his discomfort. "I think she was _branded_."

" _Branded_?" she turned to look at him, horrified.

Dempsey nodded slowly, his mind going back to a particularly gruesome case back in New York. A sick bastard had been killing young prostitutes. The oldest victim had just turned twenty one, the youngest had been sixteen. All of them had one thing in common: the _Eye of Providence_ tattooed on their lower back. The task force assigned to that case had failed to catch the psycho before his eighth victim was found behind a garbage container in Brooklyn. Dempsey had recently hung the police uniform for good, having been promoted to his first undercover unit with the NYPD as a junior detective. So, when the FBI had barged into that particular case pissing all over their parade, he had learned the hard way how it was best for cops to stay clear of the fed's business. All files pertaining to that investigation were confiscated and the task force reassigned. The case was no longer a city or a state matter. The scope, obviously, went way beyond a simple whore killer.

"An international prostitution ring?" Harry pondered out loud. "But she's just a kid! Can't be older than… what? Sixteen or seventeen?"

"If it is what I think it is, that can only be a plus."

"And what do _you_ think it is?"

Dempsey considered his answer for a second, hoping his instincts were wrong for once. His nose, however, rarely let him down. "I think we're dealin' with a case of human traffickin' here, Makepeace."

Harry grimaced, clearly finding such a possibility appalling. Still, it was hard to doubt its validity.

"So, you think someone is smuggling young girls into the country."

Dempsey lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Girls, boys, women… It's all game. You heard what our star witness said this mornin'. A shipment of humans all the way from Latin America, smuggled into the country by boat where inspections by Customs officials are much more relaxed, not to mention the countless points of entry they could pick from…"

"They don't even need to make it to the shipping docks," Harry said, following his train of thought. "They could very well load them onto a smaller boat while still on international waters and choose any point of entry into the island without raising any suspicion. Dempsey, that's…"

"Fuckin' genius, I know."

"I was going to say _horrifying_ ," she frowned.

"Yeah, well, I'm hopin' we'll get more answers outta this chick once she gets settled in. Right now she's scared shitless. I'd be too if I was her," he said glancing briefly at the rearview mirror, and changing lanes in order to exit the highway. "Do we have a location yet?"

"Chas will RT us all the details as soon as we get the go ahead from the Home Office." Harry then pursed her lips and lowered her head. After a brief moment's hesitation, she said, "Thank you for not telling Spikings how close I am to all this."

"Hey, don't mention it!"

Dempsey flashed her a smile figuring she would have done the same for him. Besides, she seemed to be handling it well. The way he saw it, being close wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Harry could only be an asset to the case at this point, and might even remember something that could put them on the right track. Perhaps once she got over the initial shock…

"Somethin' wrong, princess?" he asked sensing a slight change in her mood.

"I just can't get my head around Charles meeting with an underage prostitute in that hotel suite," Harry thought out loud. "He's about the last person I'd expect to pay for such… _services_."

His lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Yeah, it's always the ones bound for sainthood, ain't it?"

"No, Dempsey," she insisted, shaking her head. "You don't understand. You don't know him like I do."

"I _didn't_ know him at all," he said casually. "Hey, you gonna be able to stay objective on this?"

"Of course!" she scoffed, making his question sound preposterous.

Dempsey tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel impatiently, fed up with the Sunday driver they'd been trailing for the last ten minutes on the two-way country road, and decided to finally overtake him. "Do you think your old man knows about it yet?" he asked, shifting back to the left lane in plenty of time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car traveling in the opposite direction.

"He probably does," she replied. "Freddy has a habit of reading the local newspaper with his breakfast tea so, if the story has hit the stands in Kent, chances are he already knows. I should've telephoned him before we left."

"We'll be there soon 'nough," Dempsey assured her picking up speed. "I just hope he can offer us somethin' to go on. More than our pathetic excuse for a witness, anyway. _Christ!_ We could've gotten more out of an empty chair! Let's count on your dad bein' a little more cooperative."

"Now, Dempsey… Just don't go barging in there demanding answers," she warned, somewhat wary.

"Me? When have I ever done that?"

"Oh, please!"

Dempsey turned to her briefly with a lopsided grin. "Relax, babe. I'll be on my best behavior, I promise."

"That doesn't offer me much comfort," she half chuckled.

He sent her a sidelong glance pretending to be hurt by her offhanded comment, but was unable to prevent the upturn of his lips. He'd missed that back and forth during the week they'd been apart. It was like a sport between them. He guessed he'd have to give her the point this time.

"So, you and this guy's daughter are good friends, huh?" Dempsey asked, trying to learn more about the stiff, his life and his connection to Makepeace.

Harry's smile faded. Shifting slightly on the seat, she turned to the window.

"We used to be," she answered.

"Why? What happened?"

She breathed out a heavy sigh as if pondering whether to answer. Dempsey turned to her, noticed the frown creasing her forehead, and had to use all of his restraint not to push her.

"Look, we were very close once upon a time," she offered, breaking the silence. "We just grew up and simply… drifted apart."

"Lemme guess," he jibed, "you became a tough-as-nails cop and she remained a prissy princess."

Harry kept looking out the window with a stony expression, still as a statue. Not one to give up easily, Dempsey tried again.

"You decided to become a tough-as-nails cop and she decided to rob the Bank of England?"

Harry crossed her arms over her chest, jaw clenched.

"No," she finally said, her tone dry. "I decided to get married and she decided to sleep with my husband."

Dempsey winced inwardly, dumbfounded by the unexpected reply. Unable to offer her anything beyond a quiet 'Oh!' of surprise, he kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut for over a mile.

"Okay, I gotta ask you somethin'," he said when curiosity finally got the better of him. "Are you still married to the creep?"

She shifted around once again, still avoiding his eyes.

"No," she replied quietly. "The divorce was finalized last summer."

Dempsey didn't say anything, but his broad smile spoke volumes. Noticing his reaction, Harry turned to him, eyebrow raised in silent query.

"C'mon, princess," he half purred. "You can't blame me for bein' glad 'bout that."

His attention was fixed on the road, but his pulse had been picking up speed for some reason. He figured this was as good a time as any to broach the subject so, forgoing his usual charm in lieu of a more honest, heartfelt approach, he dove right in.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Harry," he started, his voice smooth. "You've been on my mind a hell of a lot this past week."

He noticed his partner stiffen, but could not determine whether that was a good sign or a bad one. Either way, there was no turning back now. After all, the timing was ideal. She couldn't go anywhere. He figured she probably felt trapped, and that gave him a small amount of satisfaction. He turned to her for a brief second and, unable to read her expression, he summoned up the courage to barge forward and damn the consequences.

"What happened between us the other night, that kiss…" He bit his lower lip, choosing the words carefully. "I don't know 'bout you, babe, but it meant somethin' to _me_."

He didn't know how else to convey his feelings to her. He'd never been really good with words, especially when it came to emotions and shit like that. To add insult to injury, she wasn't the easiest person to talk to, either.

The prolonged silence was beginning to drill a hole into his chest. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, no longer daring to look in her direction. They'd played the cat and mouse game before. In fact, that had been their game of choice ever since he'd set foot in England—he would make an obscene advance, and she would shoot him down mercilessly. It was fun, and challenging, and never failed to keep him on his toes.

But this was _completely_ different. Hell, he'd basically opened his soul to her, and her lack of response was beginning to piss him off. If she was having fun at his expense, she could just—

"It meant something to me as well."

Her voice had been so quiet and subdued, it took him a moment to process the words. Dempsey turned his head once again, this time taking his eyes off the road for a couple of seconds longer than safety warranted. Long enough to notice the reddish tint on her cheeks and the way her fingers kept fretfully playing with one of the buttons of her jacket. There was something about that girlish reaction that Dempsey found totally adorable, not that he could have ever imagined such a description fitting the cool and collected Harriet Makepeace. And yet…

He reached over with his left hand to stop the nervous fidgeting, sliding his palm up against hers, deliberately lacing their fingers together. It took a brief moment for Harry to intertwine her own fingers timidly in between his. And, when he began rubbing his thumb over the reverse of her hand in slow, tender circles, he felt the soft flesh raise almost unperceptively.

He sent her a fleeting smile.

 _You okay with this?_

She returned the smile.

 _I'm very okay with this…_

The simple touch, the warmth of her skin, the feel of her thundering heartbeat under his own thumb… It all drove that goddamn drill straight through his heart. And all he was doing was holding her hand. A thousand nights of the best sex he'd ever had _paled_ in comparison to the jumble of emotions that were welling up inside him.

So surreal, so wonderful, so perfect…

 _So fucking scary!_

Dempsey realized at that very moment he was falling hard for his partner and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Hell! He hadn't even seen it coming! It had come right out of left field and hit him like a ton of bricks. That special fondness he'd developed for her over the years had turned out to be something that, not long ago, would have sent him running and screaming in the opposite direction, and now… Well, now he was either too blind or too stupid to turn away from the licking flames, so he may as well venture into the fire.

They held hands for the rest of the trip, tentative caresses filling the vibrating silence inside the car. Reveling in the moment, both trapped under the spell of that innocent contact, like teenagers on a first date. Dempsey would occasionally let go of the steering wheel, using his right hand whenever he needed to upshift or downshift, and never letting go of Harry's grip. As they got closer to the house, she'd remind him which streets to take and, even though he remembered the way clear as daylight, he'd just let her guide the way just because it tickled him the way she'd give his hand a soft squeeze right before every turn.

By the time they got to Winfield Hall, it was almost five o'clock. The Mercedes pulled into the driveway, coming to a stop in front of the steps to the main entrance. The moment Dempsey cut the engine, Harry's apprehension returned. She stared anxiously at the mansion as she gathered the strength to step back into her cop skin.

"It's gonna be okay," Dempsey said, giving her hand a gentle tug before releasing it.

"I know," she said through a forced smile. "I'm just glad you're here."

Dempsey took off his sunglasses and offered her a friendly wink.

"Right beside ya, princess!"

Their eyes locked, anticipating what naturally followed after having shared such a special brand of affection just minutes before. Dempsey's gaze trailed down to her lips. Parting his own, he leaned forward with the desperate need to taste her again. Harry tilted her head, encouraging him with a welcoming smile. They were just an inch away from their second kiss, when Harry pulled back sharply.

Dempsey frowned, baffled by her reaction.

 _What the—!_

"Daddy!" Harry greeted, her expression a mixture of delight and concern.

She practically jumped out of the car and ran up the stairs to meet her father, who was now standing by the front door. Dempsey huffed out a chuckle—one of amused frustration—and slugged out of the car with a groan.

 _So damn close!_

 **[TBC…]**


	4. Moving On

_Hello! Thanks again for your comments. As you know they are a big part of what fuels a fanfic writer. And, as always, a special thanks to **Ostrich** for her cool suggestions and evil eye._

 _Happy Thursday, everyone! :-)_

* * *

 **Moving On**

Dempsey held the tiny triangle between his thumb and forefinger and inspected it as if it were a piece of critical evidence. After having had just an apple and a couple of grapes for lunch, the prospect of eating a sandwich filled with cucumber slices wasn't exactly his idea of a hearty snack. His stomach churned, prompting him to stop scrutinizing the closest thing to food that had been displayed before him, and to pop the entire thing in his mouth without any further thought.

"This was quite a pleasant surprise!" Lord Winfield beamed stirring some honey into his tea. "I didn't expect you back so soon, my darling!"

Across the table, Harry looked at Dempsey, who lifted his eyebrows matching her wonderment at her father's behavior. Lord Winfield had ushered them into the indoor sitting room overlooking the patio, where he'd asked Abbott, his valet, to set up two more placements at the table and, judging by his easy smile and lighthearted demeanor, the man had no idea what had happened to the unfortunate Charles Shaw.

"We've had gorgeous weather these past few weeks," Freddy was saying. "It is a pity today turned out to be a bit overcast, otherwise we could've had tea by the rose garden. I'm afraid it is already rather chilly to sit outside. I hope you like this blend of Earl Grey. It comes from Sri Lanka, and has a more intense bergamot flavor than your average Grey, but I like it." Lifting the sandwich tray up to Dempsey, he said enthusiastically: "Have another one, James! I couldn't possibly eat all this! Abbott always makes enough food to feed a regiment!"

"Daddy…" Harry took her father's hand and gave it a light squeeze, obviously having trouble raising the subject. "Have you not read the papers today?"

"No, as a matter of fact, the paper delivery boy had some scooter trouble by Bunker Hill this morning. He was apparently thrown off the wicked old thing. Abbott can tell you what happened exactly. He's more aware of the town's gossip than I am... Oh, Abbott," he said as he saw the valet arriving with the two requested table settings. "Tell my daughter and her friend what happened to the newspaper lad."

"He fell off his motor scooter," the valet deadpanned without much enthusiasm or further explanation. "Not to worry, sir. Cecil should be back soon with a copy of the _Times of Tunbridge_ ," he added, referring to the gardener. "He went downtown earlier to get some fertilizer for the hollyhock beds. We are expecting his return any minute now. But if Lady Harriet would like, I could go and check if he's back already."

"That won't be necessary, thank you, Abbot," Harry quickly said, dismissing the valet with a courteous smile. "The tea smells wonderful. Did Uncle Duffy ever bring you the scones from that little bakery in Burford?"

"He did! They were absolutely delicious!"

"How is that leg of his?" she kept stalling. "It was in poor shape this past weekend, even though it didn't rain."

Dempsey had just wolfed down his third disappointing sandwich, and was sniffing the cloud of steam rising from the posh teacup, when he lifted his eyes and regarded her questioningly.

 _Aren't you gonna tell him?_

Harry offered him a faint nod and a warning look.

 _In a minute! Let me do it my way!_

Rolling his eyes, Dempsey let out a long sigh and grabbed his fourth cucumber sandwich. He didn't even like cucumber, but it was arguably tastier than biting a chunk off the ficus tree in the corner of the room, although, he imagined, not by much...

Makepeace was clearly trying to soften the blow to the old man and, at the rate she was going, she'd be beating around the bush until dinner time. He just hoped they served something a little more substantial by then, realizing much to his chagrin that the chances of enjoying a thick, juicy burger at Winfield Hall were slim to none.

Of course, there was always dessert…

A naughty, lopsided smile crept across his face and he glanced over at Harry, but she was way too engrossed discussing family matters with her father to notice the hunger in his eyes. A hunger that had less to do with food, and more to do with another primitive need and, as far as he was concerned, just as feral. It was hard to believe only a week ago he was ready to send everything to hell and go back to the States, and now… Now he was so close to tasting that forbidden fruit, the mere thought made his mouth water, his heart pound, his blood sing, his—

"Will you be spending the night, James?"

"Huh?"

Dempsey blinked a couple of times, ripped away from his reverie by Lord Winfield. He had been so immersed in the fantasy, he almost flinched at his host's enthusiastic offer. A little ashamed, he cleared his throat, and was about to say something when Harry answered for him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Freddy. I don't think we can stay," she said. "We're in the middle of a big case and have a lot of work to do back in London, but I promise I'll—"

Just then, Abbot stormed into the room with a newspaper clutched in is hand. "I just read some terrible, _terrible_ news, m'Lord!" he panted, unusually agitated. "It's about Sir Charles Shaw, sir." Pausing for a lungful of air, he blurted, " _Dear Lord!_ He… he was _murdered_ last night!"

Freddy's eyes widened in shock. Harry quickly placed her teacup on the saucer and reached for his hand, a gesture of comfort as she tried to come up with something soothing to say. Dempsey simply closed his eyes and grimaced at the valet's blunder.

 _Nice goin', Jeeves!_

"Charles?" Freddy's voice trembled. "But it… it _can't_ be… He was just here. He…"

"I'm so sorry, daddy!" Harry said. "I… I should've been the one to tell you… I just didn't know how to. I didn't want to upset you."

"It can't be…" Lord Winfield kept murmuring. "It can't be…"

"I'm afraid it's true, sir," Dempsey said softly. "Your daughter and I have been assigned to this case. That's why we're here."

The blue in Lord Winfield's eyes dimmed as he stared blankly at the teapot. A stoic expression was set in place of his natural, easy smile. A visibly shaken Abbot, once again in his trusted role of discreet valet, excused himself quietly to give the family some privacy in light of the situation.

"Do you know who did it?" Freddy asked, breaking the loaded silence.

"Not yet," Harry answered, still holding his hand.

"We'll get to the bottom of it, sir," Dempsey assured him. Makepeace sent him a warning glance, and he answered her with a stern, 'no-more-stalling' glare in return. "But first we need to ask you some questions."

"Dempsey, perhaps now is not the right time…"

"No, it's quite all right, old girl." Freddy said through a fleeting smile. He ran a hand down his face and let out a long sigh, trying to come to terms with the loss of his friend and the shocking circumstances of his sudden death. "Perhaps, in turn, you might be able to answer some questions of my own. What is it that you need to know?"

"Did Charles Shaw say anythin' that could indicate he might be in any danger?" Dempsey asked, plunging into detective mode in tone and demeanor. "Did he act strange or erratic in any way?"

"No. In fact, he was quite excited about an upcoming holiday with his daughter. They were planning to go on a fourteen day Mediterranean cruise. It seems she has recently been through a rather difficult separation, and he wanted to do something special for her," Freddy spoke quietly, distraught by the memory of that particular conversation. "They were leaving for Barcelona next Saturday."

Dempsey's glance flashed over to Makepeace, who was leaning closer to her father, offering him unspoken comfort, before his focus returned once again to Lord Winfield.

"Do you know if he argued with anybody recently? Did he have any enemies?"

"Charles? Lord, no!" Freddy answered shaking his head. "He was extremely well liked amongst his peers! I can't imagine anybody holding a grudge against him. This whole thing is so preposterous!"

"Shaw was a widower, that right?"

"Yes," Freddy replied. "His wife passed away ten years ago from breast cancer. He was devastated. I don't think he ever got over her death. I don't think any of us do when something like that happens."

"To your knowledge, was he seein' anyone?"

"No. Not to my knowledge."

Harry's stare caught Dempsey's attention. She knew where he was going with this, and she was warning him to tread carefully. His eyes fixed on hers for a moment, his expression severe.

 _Sorry, babe, but I gotta ask…_

"Do you know if Charles Shaw ever paid for company?"

Lord Winfield frowned while he tried to process the question.

"What do you mean?"

"Did he ever hire a prostitute?" Dempsey bluntly asked to his partner's vexation.

"He would have never confessed such a thing to me, young man," Freddy answered quietly, his gaze shifting downward for a moment.

"I see…"

Dempsey brought the cup to his lips and took his first sip of tea, but did not register the taste nor the temperature as he studied the other man's body language. Lord Winfield was hiding something, he could tell.

They obviously couldn't divulge the details of the crime scene just yet. The fact they had found a young Mexican prostitute blindfolded and bound to a bed in the hotel suite where a prominent MP had been brutally murdered was the type of information any newspaper worth its soul would kill for. And, in their line of work, they had learned to assume all walls had ears.

"Do you know who he talked to while he was here?" Dempsey leaned back on the chair, propping his arm on the backrest in a posture he often used in interrogation rooms on those rare occasions when he didn't feel compelled to beat the crap out of a witness for information.

"Oh, I don't know… everybody in the house, I suppose," Freddy shrugged, and then turned to his daughter. "Harriet was here too. She might remember something I don't. Although, I didn't see much of you this past week, dear. You kept mostly to yourself."

"Your friends were here," she said through a wan smile. "I didn't want to intrude."

"Your daughter and I already talked about it, sir," Dempsey said with a nod. "I'm sure if she remembers anythin' useful she'll bring it up. She mentioned there were other guests staying at the house last week. People Shaw might've talked to before returning to London, including staff members."

"Well, the only other house guests were Tiberius North and Theodore Bishop. All of us have known Charles for years. We were in the service together, you see, under Your Majesty's Army. As you can imagine, the three of us were very close." A sudden thought dawned upon him. "Oh, God! I shall call to tell them about Charles! I wonder if they know already!"

"Sir, if you wanna take a break…" Dempsey began.

"No, no," Freddy dismissed, his tone firm even though he was already looking rather worn. "It's quite all right, son. Let's get this over and done with. I'll give them a call once we're finished."

Dempsey glanced over at Harry expecting her to give him a signal to either hurry up or finish already. It wasn't his intention to step on her toes by taking charge, and had only jumped in to spare her the difficult task of asking certain questions. To his surprise, she just offered him a faint smile of appreciation for his show of concern, and encouraged him to continue with a silent nod, so he obliged.

"Do you know if either Bishop or North engaged in any arguments with Charles Shaw this past week?"

"No, we mostly talked about hunting and politics. We had our nightly brandy and smoked _Cohiba_ s, like we always do. Nothing out of the ordinary at all."

"And what 'bout the staff? According to Harry, there were four members here last week: Mr. Abbot, the gardener, the stable boy and the cook, is that right?"

"Yes, and all of them have worked at the estate for years," Freddy pointed out. "They don't have much contact with the guests unless required. Last week wasn't overly hectic, in fact. I offered the guests the chance to go grouse hunting in the grounds and we had after dinner cocktails, but that was it. Still, the staff worked incredibly hard throughout the week, so I gave them the night off and urged those who wished to take some holiday time to do so. All took me up on the offer, except Abbot. The old fool doesn't believe in taking time off. He was back at work promptly this morning."

"Everyone else is on vacation right now?" Dempsey asked.

"Yes, a rather well deserved one at that."

Dempsey nodded, remembering how hard the staff had worked during his stay in that very estate a couple of years before, when the robbery of a priceless collection of antique jade and two murders on the premises while the investigation was ongoing, had uncovered the seedy dealings of a Winfield Hall's staff member.

"So you were here alone on Sunday night?"

"Yes," Freddy affirmed again. "But I turned in early. I really needed the rest."

"Tell me, sir," Dempsey said, fiddling with his teaspoon. "Did you ever hire someone as your secretary after Naysmith?"

"No," Lord Winfield said. "The truth is, old boy, I had trouble trusting new hires for a while. Eventually I just gave up and decided to do the bookkeeping myself. Harriet helps keep the paperwork in order every time she visits, of course. She is much better at it than I am."

"So, besides the people we already mentioned, there was nobody who came in and out of the grounds during the week?"

"Not that I remember," Freddy answered, clearly trying to recall. "There is Billy, the paperboy."

"The one who fell off his bike this morning," Dempsey confirmed with a nod.

"That's right. And also Philip, who does all the milk deliveries around here, but other than that, nobody."

It was hard to put all the loose pieces together, especially since neither Harry nor Lord Winfield remembered anything out of the ordinary during the MP's stay. Still, the answers had to lie in the week prior to Shaw's death—a conversation, an argument, a phone call, a letter… Murders didn't just happen out of the blue after a week's vacation, of that, Dempsey was sure.

What little of the sun that could be discerned between the thick rainclouds had gradually disappeared behind the tall firs that outlined the nearby woods and, before they realized, the room had become a bit too dark for comfort. Lord Winfield stood up and walked tiredly to the door, where he switched on the crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling.

"You'll have to excuse me," he apologized. "I will be back in a moment. If there is anything you need, Abbot should be able to accommodate you."

The moment the door closed behind him, Dempsey and Harry exchanged a knowing look.

"He seems to be takin' it okay, under the circumstances," Dempsey pointed out.

"He is devastated," she countered, her voice downcast. "He just wouldn't want to show it in front of you."

"Wow! You and your dad have much more in common than I thought."

"Are you surprised that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Lieutenant?"

"Your old man is quite the tree, _Sergeant_!" he said through a crooked grin, using her official title just as sensually as she had used his just a moment before. "As far as the apple goes, well…"

"Dempsey," Harry cut in, looking at him with a glimmer of remorse. "I think I should spend the night here. Freddy needs me. I can't just leave him right now."

Dempsey smiled at her, hoping to appear supportive rather than disappointed.

"Say no more, princess. I'm sure there're things you'd prefer to talk about with your father in private."

"I just want to make sure he's okay," she explained, sounding a little relieved, then adding, "But Spikings—"

"Don't worry," he raised his hand as a way to put her at ease. "Leave the boss up to me. You just worry about your old man."

"This is all so _odd_ ," she sighed. "I wish I could remember something… _anything_ useful."

"Freddy and this guy, Shaw…" Dempsey began, his mind going off on a bit of a tangent. "They were really good buddies, huh?"

"Yes, they were," Harry said staring down at her teacup. "Freddy doesn't have many close friends. Oh, he has quite a few acquaintances, but not many people he can really consider a friend in the true sense of the word. Charles was one of those people."

"And how did Freddy take what his daughter did to you, to your _marriage_?"

Dempsey had asked the question as casually as he could muster, but there had been a taste of bitterness behind it. He found it hard to believe such a thing wouldn't have put at least a little dent on the men's friendship. After all, it had to be devastating for Harry to have been so callously betrayed by both, her best friend and her husband.

"Freddy never really liked Robert," Harry said, but he could tell she had answered reluctantly. "In a way, I believe he thinks Lizzie did me a favor by breaking up the marriage, but we never really talked about it. Certain things are better left alone."

Her tone had been stern, and she turned her head to the side, obviously trying to send those emotions back to where they'd been buried for quite a while. Dempsey observed her quietly for a long moment. He'd never met Robert Makepeace, but one thing was clear to him. The man was either blind as a bat, dumb as a post or just one sandwich short of a picnic. Probably, a combination of the three.

"I'm actually torn," he finally said.

"Torn?"

"About your ex."

"What about him?" she asked coldly.

"Well, you see, babe," he replied, a wicked grin forming on his lips, "I don't know whether to rip his arms off and beat him silly with them, or pull up my sleeves and build him a golden shrine."

Harry blinked a couple of times letting his words sink in. Her surprise soon led to a soft chuckle, and he though it a small victory to be able to make her smile despite the grimness of the situation.

"What?" he chuckled back. "You don't think I could take him? Should I get the toolbox instead?"

"Oh, no," she said, her shoulders shaking with laughter. "I'm quite certain you could take him."

Dempsey watched her with a mixture of bafflement and amusement.

"What's so damn funny?" he asked, affected by her infectious laughter and unable to keep a straight face.

"Nothing, really…" she giggled, wiping a stray tear from her eye. "I think the tension of the day is starting to get to me. I'm sorry."

Taking a long sip of lukewarm tea, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, her composure returning gradually. Only when she opened her eyes again, was Dempsey able to see just how drained she appeared to be.

"Hey, princess, you okay?" The humor had completely disappeared from his voice, and was now replaced by honest concern. "This case might be closer to you than I initially thought."

"I'm okay," she assured him.

"Hey, if you want out—"

"No!" she snapped. "We already talked about this!"

"That's before I knew…" He stopped himself before he had the chance to upset her further, and opted to reason with her instead. "Look, you ain't even had a chance to _grieve_ yet."

"I'm fine, Dempsey. I can handle it."

The strength in her eyes shocked him, and the admiration and respect he held for her increased tenfold. He moved his head from side to side slowly, studying her features, her look of utter determination. She had made her decision and, once again, nothing he could say or do would dissuade her.

"It's your call, babe," he told her quietly. "I just don't want you gettin' hurt."

"Are you referring to what happened with Robert?"

"Robert… ' _Dickhead_ '… call him what you want."

"Look, just because the victim's daughter happened to be involved with him, it doesn't mean I'm going to fall apart at the seams. It happened a long time ago. Besides," she licked her lips, her eyelashes casting a small shadow below her eyes as those drifted southward briefly. "I've moved on…"

Her eyes trailed back up and locked with his, her words lingering between them.

"Have you?" Dempsey whispered. He leaned forward with a mild grin and placed his elbows on the table, narrowing in on her.

"I'm afraid so," she confessed through a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa. "For a while now."

A light knock on the semi-opened door followed by a soft clearing of a throat made them realize that Abbot was back, and that he'd obviously been hesitant to interrupt what appeared to be a rather private conversation.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," he said talking to Dempsey, "but somebody seems to be trying to reach you through the radio in your car. Judging by their insistence, sounds important."

Dempsey rushed out to take the call, surprised as to how, by some miracle, the frequency had managed to reach his RT. The signal was weak, but he could still make out Chas' words on the other side. As expected, he was calling with confirmation relating to the approval of the safe house, but couldn't really divulge much more over the unsecured line. Dempsey would get all the specific details once he swung by the office first thing in the morning. As of that moment, the kid was already safe in an undisclosed location.

By the time he returned to the tea room, Freddy was already back in his seat talking quietly with Harry.

"James, old boy, will you also be staying for dinner?" Freddy invited looking a little bit more like himself. "There are bedrooms ready upstairs if you want to spend the night."

"No, thank you, Lord Winfield," Dempsey declined, "I better get goin'."

"I'll walk you out," Harry offered, whispering a brief excuse to her father before getting up. Once in the hallway, she asked. "Everything okay at the factory?"

"Yes. The girl's already in a safe location. I'm gonna see what I can get outta her tomorrow mornin' over coffee and doughnuts… and a breakfast burrito... _Damn_ , I'm starving!"

"How can you be starving? You ate almost an entire tray of tea sandwiches!" she pointed out, walking along the short arched corridor beside him.

"Is that what you call those puny triangles? Remind me to show you what a _real_ sandwich looks like, princess," he growled as they passed one of the iron armors near the entrance hall. Pointing his thumb at the tallish figure, he smirked, "Hey, I remember that sword! Betcha that bastard Hoffman won't remember it as fondly! I totally kicked his ass! Good times, ha?"

"Oh, yes! Being almost skewered by my father's guests after two days of you ordering me around in my own house is my very definition of a great time," she joked.

"C'mon, admit it," Dempsey grinned. They had reached the main door, and he took the opportunity to grab her wrist and gently pull her closer to him. "Deep down you enjoy me bein' brash and bossy."

His arm slithered around her lower back, his gentle tug causing Harry to fall easily into his embrace. Her hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, holding timidly onto them, her head tilting up to meet his eyes. She was clearly not used to such intimacy, especially _not_ when it came to her partner, which was evident by the subtle tension in her body.

"What makes you think that?" she played along, trying to act as naturally as she could but unable to hide a tiny hint of anxiety.

"Because I've seen the way your eyes sparkle when you provoke me," he replied, his voice quiet and near. "We both get off on it, n' you know it."

Everything around them faded away as they quietly stared into each other's eyes for a long moment in which their hearts started beating to a vaguely familiar tune. A melody that had been playing in the background for much longer than they cared to admit, but could never be heard over the loud ruckus of a hectic cop's life. Now it was all around them, almost deafening in its intensity. Funny, Dempsey could have never imagined his poised and reserved partner ever looking at him the way she was doing at that precise moment.

One time, not that long ago, she had ogled him with blatant lust in a drunken state, which had managed to puzzle, shock and arouse him in equal measure. The rules of the game, however, were clear cut in his book, and taking advantage of such a situation had been completely out of the question. He supposed he respected her too much. So, with a colossal exercise of gallantry on his part, he'd broken the kiss seconds after their lips had made contact, blurting out an excuse he couldn't even remember before she'd quickly brushed past him, excuse ignored and kiss forgotten, blabbering some nonsense about her lonely car.

He had never told her about it, fooling himself into thinking it had been as meaningless as the empty kisses they'd shared while working undercover. And, if she had ever remembered it herself, she had never brought it up.

But there was no alcohol clouding the desire in her eyes this time. No, this time, what he saw were her true emotions, and it was driving his pulse into a frenzy. Dempsey brought up his hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek, a gentle stroke that prompted her eyes to drift shut and her lips to part in anticipation…

The sudden shriek of a telephone abruptly broke their quiet spell. Harry's eyes flashed open and she took a quick step back, more than a little flustered. Missing the warm contact of her body, Dempsey's hands curled into fists.

 _You gotta be kiddin' me!_

Stifled footsteps followed seconds before Abbot's muffled voice replaced the annoying ringing somewhere in an adjacent room.

"Wrong number?" Dempsey wondered with the profound desire to kill the ill-timed bastard at the other end of the line.

His question was answered almost immediately, when Abbot rushed past them with a courteous nod and informed them that there was a call for Lord Winfield. They were standing casually by the door now, hiding their disappointment from the valet behind a polite mask of acknowledgment.

Realizing the moment was over, Dempsey ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "Okay, babe. I'll see ya tomorrow."

He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on her cheek, right at the crease of her mouth. His lips lingered for a second, long enough to whisper a tender promise that made Harry blush and smile. With that, Dempsey trotted down the few steps to his Merc, winked her good-bye and took off.

 **[TBC…]**

* * *

 _Soon, I promise... **  
**_


	5. Twelve Red Roses & A Crescent Moon

_Hello, I hope you still find this fic an enjoyable read. Thank you for all the comments, follows and faves; they are a great reward. And, thank you, Ostrich, for your patience and 'evil eye'._

 _Feeling a bit gloomier than usual due to recent events. My thoughts go out to the victims and family members of our northern neighbours and, really, to all victims of war and terrorism around the world._

 _Still, I wish you guys a Happy Thursday!_

* * *

Twelve Red Roses & A Crescent Moon

The breakfast table at Winfield Hall was set and ready by precisely seven forty-five in the morning, but Harry had already been awake for a couple of hours, lying in bed, her mind adrift. After talking to Freddy all through dinner the night before, she had advised him to go to bed early out of concern. The shock of Charles' death was weighing heavily on him and, not only had he barely touched any of his food, but by the end of the evening he'd looked quite pale and fatigued.

Harry had also called it a day shortly after dinner, but not before stopping by Freddy's study, where she had spent several indecisive minutes pondering whether to call Dempsey to make sure he had arrived all right, or simply wait until the following day to meet him at the office. Caving into an absurd sense of longing, she'd sat at her father's desk, and tried to keep her jittery nerves in check as she dialled the familiar number, feeling a bit silly when she noticed the thumping inside her chest picking up speed with every ring.

 _How ludicrous! It was Dempsey! They'd talked on the phone thousands of times!_

The hoarse 'yo!' on the other end brought her inner dialogue to a halt and made her lips curl upwards.

"Hi!"

The short greeting was the only coherent thing she could muster at that moment. During the brief silence that followed, she nervously fiddled with a bunch of paperclips her father kept in a small crystal bowl by the telephone.

"Hi!" His smile came through loud and clear, putting her a bit more at ease. "Somehin' wrong, princess? Has your father remembered anythin' else?"

"No."

"Oh… so…"

"So, maybe I'm just calling to hear your voice," she said, feeling a wave of heat rise up to her cheeks.

Flirting wasn't her strongest suit, never had been, so to compensate for that particular inadequacy she had gone with one of her most valued principles: honesty. And there really _was_ something about the smooth richness of his voice that always managed to make her a bit weak at the knees, much to her horror and chagrin when they had first started working together.

"Yeah?"

Again, the smile in his voice made her own stretch to the limit.

They had talked for over half an hour, about nothing, really. A casual conversation empty of content and full of emotion that had filled her belly with frantic butterflies long after hanging up the phone and right up to the time she had succumbed to a peaceful sleep.

The following morning, Harry had come down to breakfast quite hungry, lured by the scent of hot tea and fresh pastries. The bone china services were perfectly placed, one at the head of the table and the second one to its right, as well as matching individual plates with blueberry honey scones and apple tarts. The tea caddy held a variety of brews, although Earl Grey was the clear favourite in the Winfield estate. She found Freddy already sitting at the head of the table reading _The Times_ ; apparently, there had been no newspaper troubles that morning. She planted a kiss on his forehead before taking a seat at the table by his side.

"Morning, daddy!" she greeted with a smile. "Did you sleep all right?"

"There might have been a bit of tossing and turning throughout the night," Freddy brushed off, knowing he wouldn't be able to fool his daughter. "Try the tarts, my dear. Abbot brought them fresh from the bakery this morning."

Harry was familiar with her father's deflective tactics. He used them every time he wanted to avoid a subject, so she decided not to press him, and reached for the teapot instead.

"You look a bit better than you did last night," she mentioned casually, "but I could stay one more day if you'd like."

"Oh, don't be silly! You shouldn't even have stayed last night! Grateful as I am, it wasn't necessary at all. Besides, your job must keep you rather busy at the moment. I couldn't possibly stand in the way of that. No, no, sweet girl. You must return to London. I'm perfectly fine!"

"Are you sure?"

"I am positive!" His eyebrows lifted for emphasis, then creased again. "Have you talked to Elisabeth yet?"

Harry tried her best not to show the darkening of her mood. "No. I haven't yet," she answered casually.

She focused on the steaming cup of tea in front of her, completely aware of her father's curious stare as the silence stretched.

"I'm sure she must be going through a rather difficult time. Don't you think you ought to pay her a visit?" Freddy asked. "Put yourself in her shoes."

"Really? I think she's the expert when it comes to wearing someone else's shoes!" she blurted out crossly and immediately regretted it.

"Oh, Harriet…" Freddie sighed. He reached for her hand and gave it a soft squeeze. "I would never presume to tell you how you must feel about things that have happened in your life. But, sometimes, we carry burdens that ought to be released and forgotten."

"Certain things are unforgivable. And certain people are best forgotten."

Freddy took a dainty sip of tea, sat back and crossed his legs. "I just think it is a shame that a childhood friendship should end so drastically due to someone who wasn't worthy of either of you."

"You never did like Robert, did you?" Harry accused, although she had asked the question rhetorically.

"I thought you two rushed into a marriage that wasn't meant to be," her father answered evenly. "I had nothing against the boy, but I honestly believed my daughter deserved better. And you do, my dear girl. You deserve so much better."

"Then why didn't you stop me from making such a mistake?"

"Would you really have listened to me?" Freddy cocked his head, not really expecting an answer. "You know I've always honoured our deal. I refrain from commenting on your affairs unless, that is, you ask for my opinion."

"I know," Harry conceded. "And I've always appreciated your discretion. But…"

"But what, darling?"

"Well, since we are talking about it now…"

"Yes?"

"I wish you _had_ stopped me from making one of the biggest mistakes of my life."

"Mistakes are part of life, old girl!" Freddy chortled. Of course, there were mistakes and then there were _mistakes_ , and Harry figured she would've much rather avoided going through the embarrassment, the heartbreak, and a bitter separation that ultimately resulted in a divorce. But, to her father, that seemed to be beside the point as he continued, nonchalantly, "How can we possibly appreciate the good things in life, without having first experienced the bad ones? Besides, I do believe you have moved on quite successfully from that which caused you pain to now know the difference."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, knowing intuitively that her father was trying to get at something deeper.

Freddy's pale blue eyes regarded her kindly. "I have a strong feeling," he began, his voice soft, "that I might have interrupted something yesterday before you and James got out of the car."

Harry felt the heat invading her cheeks and, struck by the dire need to keep her hands busy, she began to fiddle with the perfectly pressed napkin. She had been so dazed by the tender way Dempsey had been holding her hand during the trip she had only noticed her father at the front door by pure chance.

 _Would Freddy think she'd gone mad for finding somebody like her partner attractive? Would he hold him in contempt just as he had Robert? Was she making another huge mistake by letting her heart dictate the direction in which things were heading with Dempsey?_

"Am I doing something I'm going to regret later?" she asked, hoping for some guidance.

"I couldn't possibly answer that, dear!" Freddy kept smiling. "But I do know one thing for certain."

Harry focused on her father, revelling in the rare moment of closeness and confidence. "What is that?"

"You never looked at your husband the same way you look at your partner."

"We just started…" Harry paused, not sure where to go with that thought. They'd just started _what_ , exactly? "It's all still very new to us."

"Oh, I'd say it's been going on for longer than you both realize. I did notice a rather peculiar vibe between you two the first time he was here."

"When we came to investigate the disappearance of the antique jade collection?" Harry asked a bit surprised. "All I remember about that trip is how he got on my nerves the entire time, his deplorable social behaviour, and our constant bickering back and forth. I'm still surprised I didn't push him off one of the second story windows at one point."

"Yes, I remember the impassioned animosity between you two," Freddy laughed. "Reminded me of a couple I once knew!"

"Really?" she lifted a questioning eyebrow at him. "Who?"

"Your mum and I."

The spark in her father's eyes dimmed a notch.

"Oh…"

The mood in the room turned solemn. Harry still remembered the happy times before the tragic death of her mother. As a young adolescent, she would roll her eyes at the constant display of affection between her parents, taking for granted the closeness they had shared.

Her mother, who had worked for a lawyer before meeting Harry's father, had been a happy, carefree spirit raised in the heart of middle class London. Freddy had been almost fifteen years her senior, had an upper crust surname, a respected pedigree, and had been a highly decorated officer in her Majesty's Army. They had met one grey winter afternoon while she'd gone to buy jelly babies for her boss. Every Friday, she would go to the same corner shop to get a bag full of the sugary treat to satisfy the solicitor's notorious sweet tooth. Then, one unsuspecting Friday, pressed for time, she'd rushed out the door in a hurry, and bumped into a dashing man in uniform. Not easily impressed, Amelia Mitchell, had picked up her bag of jelly babies, and had glared at him with piercing blue eyes, warning him with a deprecating sneer to watch where he was going. Freddy became so captivated by that brief encounter with the fiery blonde, he'd returned to that same corner shop every Friday with a freshly plucked red rose.

It took about a dozen Fridays but, eventually, one rainy day of spring she finally accepted his rose.

"I still miss her," Harry confessed.

"I do too, my darling," Freddy yearned. "It's not easy to lose a loved one under such unfair circumstances. That's why I thought you of all people ought to know what Charles' daughter must be going through. She probably needs a friend right about now."

Harry sighed, absently running her index finger over the rim of her cup. "You know, we're not twelve anymore, daddy."

"You'll always be twelve in my eyes."

The idea of coming face to face with her long lost friend didn't appeal to Harry in the least, but perhaps Elisabeth might mention something that could help them get to the bottom of Charles' murder, so why not approach it as part of the job? And, if by some chance talking to her helped shed some light into their investigation, it would be well worth the effort.

"All right," she finally agreed. "I'll give her a call."

* * *

Spikings had managed to organize a flat in Southwark, near Elephants & Castle. A single bedroom with one tiny bathroom and a modest sitting room with views to a jungle of concrete beyond which, and using a great deal of imagination, one could make out a thin sliver of the Thames. It wasn't fancy, but at least it was isolated enough for detectives on duty to change shifts without attracting too much attention.

Apparently, Spikings had grilled the girl for over two hours after Dempsey and Makepeace's unsuccessful attempt to get any information from her the day before, but she either had not been able to recall a single useful detail from the night of the murder, or was unwilling to divulge anything to the police out of fear of retaliation. Either way, getting information out of the chick had been like pulling teeth. And her physical condition had not gotten any better since they had brought her in for questioning.

Dempsey had arrived at the apartment shortly after nine, and now crouched beside the small bed where the trembling girl kept mumbling unintelligibly.

"How long has she been like this?" he demanded from Phil Williams, the DC assigned to her protection.

Phil looked over at Dave Matthews, his partner on the job, and offered Dempsey a faint shrug. "A bit over an hour, perhaps," he answered with caution. He knew better than to piss off a senior detective during a classified job, especially _this_ particular senior detective. "We tried to give her some tea, but she refused to have any. Not even water. She probably got flu…"

"That ain't it," Dempsey said looking at the girl, brows creased. "These are clear signs of withdrawal. Quick, bring a basin or a bowl or somethin'!" He glanced up at the younger men who stood hesitantly by the door. When neither of them seemed to react, he thundered, " _Now_!"

Phil scurried away to follow the stern command while Dave knelt beside Dempsey to get a closer look at the girl, who kept moaning and whimpering with every shiver.

"She had quite a few nightmares last night, we tried to—"

"I'd step away if I was you," Dempsey cut in, standing up.

Dave seemed a little flustered, unsure of what had just been asked of him. "Wha—?"

A stream of vomit rained all over his lap just an instant later, and he clumsily pushed away from the bed with a nasty curse and a face of disgust. He was looking at his drenched jeans in consternation when Phil reappeared with a medium sized bowl and an expression that morphed from puzzlement, to realization, to regret all inside a single second. Isabel flopped down on the mattress again, her long, black hair sticking to her face as she lay spent on the bed.

"Clean this up," Dempsey ordered, walking calmly out of the bedroom. "I'm gonna make a pot'o coffee."

It was going to be a hell of a mission to get any kind of useful information out of the girl considering her state. The only way Dempsey figured he might get her to talk was to keep her conscious, and that would require lots of coffee and a mountain of determination. He stepped into the tubular kitchen and began opening and shutting cabinets in search for filters. Once he found them, he filled the reservoir of the machine with water, poured a hefty amount of ground coffee into the lined holder and slammed it shut, taking all his frustrations out on the plastic compartment before flipping the switch. The coffee maker began making gurgling noises, and he placed his elbows on the counter, leaning forward while trying to figure out the best course of action.

"Um, Lieutenant?" Phil called from just outside the kitchen.

"What!" Dempsey snapped, turning his head towards the young man's voice.

"Her clothes got messy too, and she's got nothing else to wear."

"So what're you tellin' me for? Give her a towel or somethin'!"

What was it about kids today, Dempsey wondered, that made them so damn jittery about a woman's body! When he was their age he would've been first in line to undress a pretty girl! He immediately winced at his own insensitivity. The poor girl was going through hell and back, and here he was dragging his mind through the gutter. Makepeace was right—he could be such a pig at times. It was weird, really. Here he was feeling like a jerk for objectifying women, when all he'd been able to think about for the better part of a week was ripping the clothes off his gorgeous partner and having wild sex with her. Still, when it came to _that_ particular woman, Dempsey's heart seemed to have greater authority over his nether regions. A shocking first considering his extensive track record...

The thought of Harry made him smile. They had talked on the phone for a while the night before, not that he remembered what on earth they'd said to each other for over half an hour. It had been a strange change of pace for them, a game he hadn't played since he was a kid and, hilarious as it was, painfully immature seeing as they had spent the latter part of the conversation simply waiting on the other one to hang up first. It was funny how, just the sound of her voice, had managed to arouse him to the point where he'd found himself bee lining to the workout corner upon hanging up the phone in an attempt to exorcise all his frustrations at the bench press machine.

He stood listening to the rhythmic dripping of the coffee into the carafe, eyes unfocused on the 'I _heart_ Cornwall' printed on one of the two mugs before him, while the memory of Harry's lips moving against his own played like a movie reel inside his brain.

Dempsey huffed out a short, incredulous chuckle.

 _What the hell was that broad doing to him?_

The drip of the coffee slowed down to a lazy drop several seconds apart as the pot filled almost to the max. He poured the dark brew into the two mugs **,** and took a swig out of one of them. Damn strong. Just like he liked it. He took a couple more gulps before heading back to the bedroom, steaming mugs in hand, hoping to inject some coherence into the semiconscious girl.

Phil and Dave had done a half decent job in cleaning the mess she'd made earlier. They'd mopped the floor and sprayed some flowery scent all over the room which managed to mask the acrid smell somewhat, if not eliminate it completely. The bed linens had been changed, and Isabel was tucked under the sheets, perfectly still but with her eyes open.

"Here, have some of this," Dempsey said, extending one mug to her while placing the other on the nightstand.

The girl didn't say anything, didn't even acknowledge him. She just kept staring out into space, eyes fixed on an imaginary spot between the bed and the door.

"Don't make me go get a funnel," Dempsey said impassively.

Isabel's dark eyes trailed slowly up to him, her face still expressionless. She might have believed him capable of forcing the coffee down her throat because she slowly sat up, letting the sheet fall to her lap and exposing her breasts without a trace of shame. He was not the first man to ever see her naked after all, nor would he be the last.

Dempsey handed her the mug, focusing on the floorboards in lieu of a much more erotic view.

"Never pegged you for a prude, gringo," she rasped in that unmistakable Tex-Mex accent as she took the mug from him. "Haven't you ever seen a pair o' tits before?"

This time Dempsey looked at her, his amusement hidden behind a mask of indifference. "No. First time. Now I can die a happy man."

Isabel slurped her coffee, never taking her eyes off him. Her skin was like smooth mocha, revealing the tantalizing curves of early womanhood. But there was certain edginess to her facial features, something that comes after having lived too fast, too soon. She would've been stunning, had life and drugs not beaten all youth out of her good looks. Dempsey felt a sudden twinge of sadness towards the broken child before him. He sat on the edge of the bed, and took the half empty mug out of her hands to place it next to his on the nightstand.

"Look, I need to ask you some questions," he said, leveling with her. "I promise nothin' will happen to you while you're in this place, but you need to give me somethin', or I won't be able to keep you here much longer. I was damn lucky to convince the suits to consider you a credible witness, so how 'bout you give me the goods, huh?"

"I'm… I'm gonna need another fix," she uttered meekly in a pathetic attempt to bargain. The fidgeting had been constant since she'd gathered the strength to sit up, and she was now scratching a non-existent rash on her forearm. "Please, I… I don't think I can hold out much longer."

"You'll be fine."

"Please," she begged, almost crying now. "I need… just…! Please, _please_ , gringo!"

"Come on, kid, get real! I ain't gonna get you no skag! Now _focus_!"

Her expression turned cold as she glared at him. " _Hijo de la gran puta!i_ " she spat, banging the mattress with an angry fist. " _Vete al carajo y púdrete ahí, cabrón!ii_ "

Dempsey let out a long sigh. "Okay, so we're doin' this the hard way," he said, his voice way more serene than the situation called for. "Let me tell you how this' gonna work. You either start talkin' right now, or I cut you loose in the seediest hood in town with a big thank you note from all of us at cop central. Get my drift?"

The rage in Isabel's eyes turned to sheer terror. "You wouldn't."

"Think I'm bluffin'?"

The girl pinched her lower lip, pondering whether to push her luck or cave into his demands. In the end, she had no other choice but to fold.

She bared her teeth and growled. "This sucks!"

"Well, kid, what can I tell ya?" Dempsey shrugged. "Life's hard n' then you die."

She licked her lips, trying to find her way out of the labyrinth of rotten options she'd been presented. Her hands had the hem of the sheets twisted in a knot, her knuckles whiter than the barren wall.

"I can't go back out there," she said in a thin voice. "They'll kill me."

"I know," Dempsey murmured.

Threatening witnesses into spilling the beans was his specialty. He always thrived on the challenge. It was like a game to him, a power of wills, and his often proved to be the strongest. Today's game, however, was foul. He wasn't enjoying toying with this particular witness in the slightest.

"I don't wanna throw you to the lions, trust me," he assured her, taking out a cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket and placing it on his lips while he fished into one of his side pockets for a lighter. "All I want is to find out more about the night of the murder."

Isabel was following his every move with curious eyes. Watching him light up the cigar, she wrinkled her nose. "Those things're disgustin', y'know."

"Comin' from you that's a real jab," he smirked, blowing out the smoke to the side. He licked his lips, and rolled the thin brown cylinder between his thumb and index finger, elbows now resting on his knees. "Now tell me what you remember 'bout that night."

Isabel appeared suddenly worn and defeated, the signs of withdrawal a mild side effect from which she seemed to be recovering slowly. She kept swallowing hard in a futile attempt to moisten her throat. Part of the gauntness in her face, Dempsey realized, was dehydration. At one point, her bottom lip began to tremble slightly, and her eyes welled up.

"C'mon, kid," he encouraged with a smile, noticing the ice cracking under the surface. "Gimme somethin' to go on. I promise to keep it on the down low."

A deep, calming sigh, and then, "I was in the bedroom when it happened," she began, clearly struggling to focus on the memory, which had to be a scrambled mess given the high she'd been experiencing. "Don't remember much, just bits n' pieces… Not long after the client got to the room someone started bangin' on the door real hard."

"Okay, see? That's good," Dempsey said when she appeared stuck. With an encouraging nod, he said, "Go on."

"I… I remember the client walkin' out of the room to answer the door. Then whoever it was started arguin' with him 'bout somethin'. I couldn't make out what they were sayin'."

"Male voices?"

Isabel nodded with a fair amount of certainty. At least there was one thing of which she appeared to be sure.

"How many men?" Dempsey prompted.

"I dunno," she shrugged. "Two, I think… The client and another dude."

"Was the door to the bedroom closed?"

"I could't see anythin'," she sneered, reminding him with a gesture of her hands that she had been blindfolded.

"Okay, walk me through what happened next."

"They didn't argue for long," she said, running a hand through her hair attempting to recall as much as she could. "Then, suddenly, there was this noise, like a… like a _thud_. I heard'em struggle for a bit n' then one o'them started whimperin'. He was makin' this horrible noise, like a wounded animal... Then I didn't hear nothin' no more."

She fell silent and Dempsey figured she had just described the chilling moment in which Charles Shaw had been stabbed to death. Isabel sat quietly against the headboard, her fractured mind working hard at putting all the disjointed pieces together.

He took a long drag from his cigar, and allowed his next question to curl around the smoke, "How long was it 'til they found you?"

"Don't remember," she mumbled. "Must've passed out or somethin'. Next thing I know I hear this lady from the hotel screamin' like a pig in a slaughterhouse n', well, the rest you probably already know..."

"How did you get to the hotel in the first place?"

"They hand us over to this dude," she said in a hoarse whisper. "A real butch guy with a fucked up temper. Everyone calls him Jay. Jay ' _The Barrel_ '."

 _Bingo!_

"What does he look like?"

"Like a dirty tank," she spat with barefaced disgust. "Real short hair, army style. Got the thickest neck I ever seen. Last time I saw him there was this small mark, a moon in the shape of a nail, burnt onto the skin." She waved a lazy finger near the side of her neck to indicate the location of the crescent moon.

"Where can I find this guy?"

Isabel closed her eyes, and for a moment it looked as if she was going to be sick again. "Don't really know where he works, but he deals in Soho, mostly. That's where he picks us up."

"And then?"

"Then he takes us to Disneyland!" she snarled, piercing him with a stare. "Then we go wherever the jobs are, gringo! What d'you think?"

"Does he usually take you to fancy hotels?"

"No," she mumbled. "Sometimes' big-ass houses in the outskirts."

"An' how do you get paid for these jobs, in cash, lines, dose?"

The girl regarded him for a moment with an incredulous expression, then burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. " _Paid?_ " she chortled. "Dude, we don't get no pay. We're lucky they give us a place to stay and, besides, the clients' much cleaner than the losers you find on the streets."

"How can you afford to get high, then?"

"I don't get high," she hissed with indignation. Dempsey gave her a 'don't give me bullshit' look that seemed to enrage her further. "Screw you man! I'm tellin' ya, I don't use!"

"Right. It was candy you's just beggin' for a minute ag—"

"They dope us, okay!" she spat. "Before goin' on a job they give us this shit to 'relax' us. At least that's what the bastards say."

"Who's 'they'?" Dempsey asked. But she was already shutting down. "C'mon, answer me! Who's ' _they_ '?"

Isabel just plopped down on the mattress and covered her head with the bedspread. "I'm tired, gringo. Go away! I swear I told you everythin' I remember…"

Dempsey was tempted to rip the covers off her and demand more answers, but came to the realization he couldn't possibly push her any further. Between the drugs and the shock he'd been lucky to get any information at all out of her. It hadn't been much, but at least now he had a name.

Jay ' _The Barrel_ '.

 **[TBC…]**

i _You son of a bitch!_

ii _Go rot in hell, asshole!_


	6. The Devil's Hand

_Well, here is today's chapter._ _I hope you're still enjoying the fic (writers usually get too close to their stories to be able to be objective—for all I know this story could be a total dud). Glad to see some of you back in the comments (I thought I might have lost some people along the way—yes, insecurity haunts me!)._

 _Also, I've run into a bit of a road bump, and though I have the general plot of the story lined out and I know how it is going to progress and ultimately end, the creative juices as far as the writing goes are not flowing as they used to, so I hope I can keep up the Thursday postings. If for some reason I miss a Thursday, please forgive the delay and blame the uncooperative muse for the lack of update._

 _ _As always, a special thanks to Ostrich for her honest advice and for pushing me into writing the best version of these chapters I possibly can.__

 _I wish you all a Happy Thursday and a special happy 'Thanksgiving Thursday' to all readers in the US! Aw, I do miss that holiday… ;-)_

* * *

The Devil's Hand

Harry slammed the door of her father's Jaguar shut and walked across the SI10 parking lot to the discreet building entrance. She had summoned up the courage to finally give Elisabeth a call before leaving Winfield Hall that morning, and was partly relieved to have reached her answering machine. Having been really tempted to hang up the phone, in the end she'd decided to leave her a brief message out of an ingrained sense of duty.

Although she'd had reservations about taking off so soon after breakfast, her father had been adamant about her return, insisting he was just fine, and that her job was more important under the circumstances. Besides, she knew from experience that arguing with the old chap would only be a losing battle. That was one thing all the men in her life had in common. Her father, her boss and especially her partner, were all as thick headed as they come, trait she decided to attribute to the male species as a whole. Well, perhaps not _every_ man was like that. Robert had always been easily swayed and a bit of a pushover, she thought with a twinge of sourness as she walked up the stairs to the second floor.

"Yo! Princess! Wait up!"

Dempsey rushed up the last few steps and caught up with her as she reached the hallway entrance that led to their office.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," she said, reminding him with a clipped tone where they were, just in case he decided to drop the professional front. Her eyes, conversely, told the truth her body and demeanour so prudently concealed. "How was breakfast with our star witness?"

"It's like pullin' teeth!" he growled, opening the door for her once they got to the end of the hallway.

"She still refuses to talk?" Harry asked as she walked into the morning buzz of cops, clerks and ringing telephones that was their office. "I think your male charm may be wavering, Dempsey."

"My male charm's just fine," he sang, mocking her suggestion with a sidelong glance. They both sat at their respective desks facing each other, her upright pose in direct juxtaposition to his laidback sprawl. "The kid's terrified, Harry. I pulled all the information I was goin' to get out of her. Maybe, when she's not either high as a kite or comin' back from a trip, she'll be willin' to tell us a little more 'bout the night in question and the mysterious ' _they_ ' that seems to make her pee in her panties."

"Seems to me the breakfast burrito didn't really work as well as you'd hoped."

"Well, after a gallon of coffee, a little persuasion and a helluva lot o' probin', I did get a name," he said with a smirk. "Jay ' _The Barrel_ '.

"So, you got a first name and a nickname," she countered sounding disappointed.

"Hey, you try gettin' information outta the human clam!"

Harry was about to respond when Chas came out of Spikings' office with a manila folder under his arm. He looked tired and somewhat wary, which could only account for one thing: the boss was in a _particularly_ sour mood.

"Morning, you two!" he greeted, trying to sound more cheerful than he obviously felt. "Spikings wants to see you in his office. A preliminary forensics report arrived this morning on the Shaw case."

Harry's suspicion regarding her boss' mood happened to be spot on. Spikings sat behind his desk, elbows resting on top of an open folder and looking as grim as a boxer about to step out into the ring. He regarded them with stern eyes and a deep scowl, making Harry want to melt into the chair where she was sitting. She was glad to have Dempsey next to her as a possible buffer. He, after all, always seemed to thrive under their boss' angry outbursts, finding them, to her astonishment, more amusing than menacing. Harry, on the other hand, didn't particularly appreciate the angry tone and condescending comments. It was like being called into the principal's office back in prep school, although Mr. Richter at Queen's College didn't hold a candle to Chief Superintendent Spikings.

"There has been a new and unexpected development on this case," he growled, hands clasped in front of him. "I do not like surprises, Sergeant, and this happened to be a big one!" Harry had a rather good idea as to what her boss might be getting at. She glanced over at her partner, who appeared to be way more relaxed than she was, and straightened her back, sensing her professional decorum slip with every second of scrutiny.

Harry decided to tackle the issue head on, and was about to offer a bleak explanation, when Spikings produced a black and white photograph from the open folder before him.

"Do you recognize this?"

She carefully studied the eight by ten that her boss was holding up. It showed a letter opener covered in dark grey spots—obviously blood—with forensic annotations in regards to its pattern, shape and dimensions written in black ink.

"It's the murder weapon," Harry guessed, her throat suddenly dry.

Dempsey turned his head toward her, and she caught his eye, grateful for the sense of calm and serenity she was able to draw from his proximity. Still, it was obvious he found Spikings' rather odd approach to the meeting equally intriguing. Their boss didn't seem to notice the silent exchange, and proceeded to lift another photograph from the folder, a close up of the previous one, that revealed the grip of the letter opener in stark detail.

"And, do you recognize _this_?" he asked, his stare hard on Makepeace.

She let out a small gasp of horror as a frozen chill crawled up her spine.

"It… It _can't_ be!" she breathed, feeling suddenly sick. "No, it's just…"

" _Holy shit_!" Dempsey whispered a second later as he recognized the insignia that was carved in perfect detail on the grip. It featured a crowned lion with a royal peacock to its right, and a gold shield with a red _fleur de lis_ to its left.

"Well?" Spikings pressed, still waiting for an answer.

"It is…" Harry cleared her dried throat and tried again. "It's the Winfield House coat of arms."

"And, would it be too much to ask for you to tell me, Sergeant, what the hell is your family's letter opener doing sticking out of a dead minister's chest?!"

All colour draining slowly from her face, Harry felt the sudden drop of her heart into the pit of her stomach. She really couldn't offer her boss any answers. The shock had her mind spinning, trying to make sense of what she was being shown.

"The victim spent the previous week over at Winfield Hall," Dempsey reasoned, coming to her rescue the moment he noticed her inability to utter a single word. "He could've taken it himself."

"Of course, Lieutenant," Spikings answered, his voice pure saccharine. "And I suppose he also brutally stabbed himself three times in the chest and crawled half way across the room to close the entrance door before haemorrhaging to death! Which brings me to my _next_ point. Where the bloody hell were you two yesterday afternoon, and why wasn't I informed one of my lead detectives has a personal connection to this ruddy case?!"

Spikings had probably guessed the answer to the first question. As to the second one, it was most certainly asked rhetorically. Harry noticed how his face had gradually gone from deep red to purple. To make light of the situation, or perhaps as a defence mechanism, she pictured her boss as a cartoon character, smoke coming out of his ears in white, perfectly delineated puffs.

"I'm sorry, sir, I just…"

But she couldn't really offer a half valid reason for their utter insubordination.

"I'm assuming they dusted the thing for prints," Dempsey jumped in, his voice dark.

"Yes. According to this report they have found four sets of prints on the handle, some of which are just partial. Identification, of course, is still pending." Spikings exhaled and ran a hand down his face in an attempt to keep his temper in check. In a much calmer voice, he added, "You know it is very likely they'll find your father's prints on that letter opener."

Harry swallowed hard, nodding her head only because it was easier than offering a verbal response.

"So what?" Dempsey shrugged. "The strange thing would be if his prints weren't all over the damned thing! An' even so, the evidence would be circumstantial _at best_. They can't pin _nothin'_ on him!"

"Perhaps," Spikings frowned. "But we still have a dead politician on our hands, a killer on the loose and no definite suspect to speak of so, please tell me our lovely Mexican witness has shed some light on the investigation."

"Well…" Dempsey winced, not really eager to go there.

"I'm assuming that's a 'no'."

"I just need a little more time to—"

"Time is not a luxury we have at the moment, Lieutenant! You better get some answers from her sooner rather than later!" Spikings warned, decibels rising. "SI10 is not in the habit of providing free room and board to every John, Dick and Harry with a price on their neck! And if she can't provide any solid leads…"

"She will," Dempsey assured him. "The chick's gonna break eventually, trust me on that. One thing's for sure. Either the killer didn't know the girl was in the bedroom, or he simply didn't care. It's the only way I can explain her bein' alive."

"Perhaps he was counting on her being blindfolded," Harry offered, rising over her initial shock. "And knew she would never be able to identify him."

"Those are all nice theories," Spikings cut in. "But that's all they are _: theories_. I would, however, like something a bit more tangible than just plain speculation. So, tell me you managed to sort through the pile of codswallop I'm sure you were fed, and got some _real_ answers out of the witness."

For the first time since they'd entered Spikings' office, Dempsey seemed a bit uncomfortable.

"So far the only concrete answer I got from the girl was her pimp's name."

"Is that it?"

Spikings was clearly not overly pleased.

"Okay, I _think_ it's her pimp's name, it could be her dealer. I don't know yet."

"If that's all you've got to go on, boy, I suggest you start sleuthing your way into finding better answers, because I'm supposed to meet with the Commissioner in an hour, and all I have to offer him at this point is a letter opener with connections to somebody in my department, and the street name of someone who might or might not be a dealer provided by a girl with questionable reliability!"

"There's something else," Dempsey said, leaning forward and extracting his wallet from the back pocket of his Dockers. He flipped through a couple of notes to finally extract a one dollar bill. He walked up to Spikings' desk and placed the note in front of him. Harry walked up behind Dempsey wondering what her partner could possibly be up to.

"See this?" he said, pointing to a picture inside a circle to the left of the note. "Look familiar?"

"It's the exact same symbol the witness has tattooed on her back," Harry said, noticing the pyramid and the Eye of Providence. "But, what does it _mean_?"

"I believe it's a code of some sort," Dempsey shrugged. "A mark used by a bunch of shady characters who seem to have enough clout to get away with murder."

"Are you implying the people behind the murder are the 'Illuminati' or the 'Freemasons' or any such conspiracy nonsense like that?" Spikings snarled, his face twisting into a sour scowl. "Because if you are, I think I'll take my chances going to the Commissioner with the bloody pimp's name as our only plausible lead and let him come down hard on SI10 on that count! And you," he added, pointing an angry finger at Makepeace. "You better give me one, just _one,_ good reason why I should keep you on this case, Sergeant, because I fail to think of any!"

"Sir, I can assure you…" Harry began. She was working hard to formulate a convincing enough reason to sway her boss into not pulling the plug on her involvement. "My ties to this case are not… I'm perfectly capable of…"

"Makepeace is in a unique position to interview two key witnesses on this case, boss," Dempsey cut in, getting a much more valid point across. Harry let him take over, quite relieved to have the burden off her shoulders. She was still quite unsettled by the discovery of her dad's letter opener at the scene of the crime, making it impossible for her to argue her objectiveness on the case. "She knows both Lord Bishop and Tiberius North personally," Dempsey continued, "two of the last people to see the victim alive. Plus she's 'bout the only chance we got to get valuable information outta them without turning the questionin' into a police matter." With razor sharp shrewdness, he added, "We wouldn't want to turn this case into a media circus, right?"

Dempsey had hit Spikings were it hurt the most. He had narrowed in for the kill and had hit the nail on the head by addressing his worst fear, using it cleverly against him. Furthermore, he'd done so without mentioning Freddy in any way which, to Harry, was a small victory in and of itself.

They could almost hear their boss' wheels churning inside his head, trying to find a way out. He was obviously caught between a rock and a hard place, and damned either way.

 _Stale mate!_

"Well played," Spikings grumbled after a long silence. There was a certain degree of respect and admiration in the older man's eyes. "Very well," he accepted grudgingly. "You have until Friday to come up with a solid lead." He turned to Harry with a glare that could've melted steel. "But if I see even the slightest indication that your ties to this case are in any way hindering the investigation, your leave of absence will become effective immediately. Is that clear, Sergeant?"

"Crystal clear, sir."

* * *

 _Beak Street, Soho, an hour later…_

"We have at least half a dozen informants in this area," Dempsey grumbled as they made their way down the crowded street. "Tell me again why we're going to this whacko?"

They had left the car near St. Patrick's Church and were strolling across Soho pretending to be a couple. The place was too seedy to be considered romantic, but it was the first chance they'd had since Harry's return from Winfield Hall to hang out with each other, albeit on official business.

"I told you," Harry replied, eyes averted. "She is my most trusted informant. If this Jay ' _The Barrel_ ' character is a dealer around here, she'll be able to point us in the right direction."

She had her arm around Dempsey's waist. It had been grounded there ever since he had unexpectedly draped his arm around her shoulders. The move had come as natural to Dempsey as breathing, and as a bit of a shock to Harry, who found the innocent gesture awkward at first. She was just not used to this new level of intimacy, especially not with him, and didn't quite know what to expect or how to react. For a moment, she thought he was going to spin her around, press her against one of the dirty walls, and go full out for that second kiss. But, much to her disappointment, he hadn't made any overt advances.

 _We are working undercover! He's just playing a role! Get a grip, Harry! You have done this hundreds of times before!_

Except she could tell the difference between the role-play then and the one now. The casual brush of her hair as he had snaked his arm around the back of her neck, the gentle squeeze of her shoulder before crossing the road, the tone of his voice during the most casual of conversations…

He had even switched to a new aftershave, which she vaguely recognized as a brand she might have purchased in _Harrod's_ a few months before as a last minute birthday gift after having ran out of ideas. She was actually going to go with the set of gold-plated cuff links, knowing they would be just as useless to him as the pathetic gifts he insisted on giving her on _her_ birthday. But Angela, one of her closest friends, insisted the scent of that particular aftershave had a certain muskiness that, according to her, 'was just made for sexy American cops with big guns', whatever that meant. Harry remembered rolling her eyes and buying the damned thing just to avoid any further gushing on Angela's part regarding her partner.

"Did you just… _sniff_ me?" Dempsey laughed.

"Yes," she admitted casually. "Nice aftershave."

"T'was a gift from this classy blonde I know."

"Hmmm, she has good taste."

Dempsey gave her shoulders a friendly squeeze, and Harry felt the bulk of his holster against her side. It remained concealed under both his jacket and windbreaker, but was a solid reminder that he was still her partner, that they were still cops, and that they happened to be on duty.

"You'd think kids would get a little more creative with their drawings seein' as they're slowly runnin' outta walls," he said when they walked past yet another graffiti sketch in the shape of a penis sprayed in yellow ink over a grey wall.

"Kids with raging hormones, Dempsey. I'm sure you can relate."

"Hey, if you're implyin' I have a one track mind…" he paused, his tone changing from wounded to conceding, "well, then okay."

He wiggled his eyebrows, his wicked grin making her chuckle.

"Focus, Lieutenant! We've got a job to do!"

"Yeah, alright," he sighed in resignation. He looked up through the gap of old buildings and past the lines of hanging laundry that danced to the tune of a light breeze. Dark clouds had been gathering in the sky, and rain was bound to pour hard sometime in the afternoon. "Any chance we'll bump into this broad before the next great flood?"

"Why do you dislike her so much?" she asked, sensing the deprecating tone in which he had posed the question.

"I don't dislike her," he shrugged.

Harry gave him a look that let him know, without saying a word, she wasn't buying it.

"Okay, so she ain't my first choice for a beefer," he confessed. "But you gotta admit, babe, that one's a few cards short of a full deck. C'mon! The lady talks to her _shoppin' cart_ an' turns to ghosts for spiritual guidance, for godssakes!"

"And _you_ have to admit she has never sent us on a wild goose chase, which is more than I can say for a few of your regular informants."

"Is this about the Piccadilly Circus bust again? Jeez! Why don't you and Spikings start a 'beat that horse to death' club?"

The open resentment in his tone made her feel a tad guilty for having badgered him repeatedly about it and, this time, it was she who gave his waist a warm squeeze, the tender gesture way too playful for just a colleague. Harry had done it easily, without thinking, and when she turned her head to face him she noticed his crooked grin.

"It's getting' a little hard stickin' by your rules, princess. You ain't playin' fair."

"What rules are those?"

"Lips off while on duty," he stated as if such rule had been set in stone for ages. "Also hands off, but I'm pretty sure we found a way 'round that one." He slid his hand down to her hip and pulled her toward him to prove his point. Her heartbeat, which had gradually slowed down to a steady rhythm, began picking up the pace again.

"I'd say _all_ is fair game while undercover, Lieutenant," she uttered, surprising them both.

He stopped in his tracks and swirled her around to study her face for a long moment.

"Not in my book, Sergeant," he said softly. "Next time I kiss ya, it won't be pretend. I'm tired of gimmicks."

The way he was looking at her, the words themselves, made Harry's breath catch. She lowered her gaze with the suggestion of a smile, feeling the all too familiar burning in her cheeks intensify.

The distant rattling of small wheels scraping the concrete surface of the pavement pulled their attention to the far end of the street, where a short figure bundled up in layer after dirty layer of ragged clothing waddled its way toward them. Grey, stringy hair hung limply from under a woollen cap of an undefinable colour. Bony fingers gripped the bar of a small shopping trolley covered with rust stains, rolling it carelessly over puddles and potholes towards Dempsey and Makepeace.

"Hello, Myrtle," Harry greeted walking over to meet her half way.

It was virtually impossible to estimate the woman's age, although one could have guessed anywhere from forty five to seventy five and still have been wrong. The stench of about fifty missed showers hit Harry's nostrils from several feet away.

"Got me money?" she asked harshly, her breath reeking of liquor and decay.

Harry discretely pulled the folded ten pound note out of her pocket and handed it to her. Myrtle's faded bluish-grey eyes darted around as she tucked the money into a small sack hanging from the oversized trousers. An old leather belt that had seen better days managed to keep them from falling off her tiny frame.

"Whatcha wanna know?"

"Jay ' _The Barrel_ '. Where can we find him?"

The woman regarded Harry cautiously for a moment and then her eyes trailed over to Dempsey, who stood a couple of paces behind letting his partner deal with her informant without any interference. Partly, because stool pigeons were usually very particular as to which cops they chose to talk to, but also, because he found Myrtle more than a bit unsettling. It was evident by his stance and demeanour that the woman rubbed him up the wrong way.

Perhaps Myrtle could sense his animosity. Perhaps the dislike was mutual. Or, perhaps, she just saw an opportunity to get under a cop's skin and took it.

"You better apologise to my trolley," she told Dempsey crossly.

Dempsey frowned, taken aback by the odd request. "Huh?"

"You were 'aving foul thoughts 'bout my trolley, you did!" she accused, eyes boring into him. Turning to Makepeace, bursting with indignation, she rasped, "Make 'im apologise! Nobody calls me trolley such nasty things!"

Harry blinked a couple of times, just as shocked about the nutty accusation as her partner was. "I'm sure the Lieutenant didn't mean to—"

"Make 'im apologise!"

Myrtle's wide eyes reflected her madness. There would be no getting any information from her in her current state. After weighing her options, Harry sighed. "Dempsey, why don't you just apologise?"

"Wait… you want me to apologize?" he looked at her incredulously. "To a _shopping cart_?"

She turned to him sharply with a warning glare.

 _Look, if you don't, then just say good-bye to whatever information she might have for us!_

Dempsey shifted his weight on the spot, his mood souring by the second. He set his jaw, arms folded across his chest in a reluctant pose.

"Well?" Myrtle sneered.

Her patience was apparently as short as Dempsey's temper, which Harry feared could only lead to an explosion of epic proportions. Trying desperately to smooth things over between them, she turned to her partner and gave him the best ' _I promise to make it up to you_ ' look she could muster, hoping that he would get the message. He apparently did, because he rolled his eyes in resignation and exhaled a nasty curse under his breath.

"I'm sorry," he finally growled through clenched teeth.

"Don't apologise to me, lad!" Myrtle sang. "Apologise to me _trolley_!"

Dempsey looked at Myrtle with murderous eyes and, for a moment, Harry feared he might just grab the bloody trolley and hit the woman over the head with it. She winced, half expecting, half dreading the eruption that would very likely ensue if Myrtle kept pushing his buttons in such a way. Harry was beyond relieved when she heard his voice, low and dangerous.

"I'm sorry," he snarled, this time directing a sanguine glare at the trolley.

Myrtle remained silent for an endless moment after which she turned back to Makepeace, seemingly satisfied with the horribly insincere apology. "That'll be twenty more quid."

Harry wasn't sure whether she meant the pass for the unforgivable transgression of insulting her trolley, or the information on Jay ' _The Barrel'_ s' whereabouts.

"Twenty?" Harry challenged. "Any of the other blokes we can go to for this information would settle for less."

"Maybe," Myrtle agreed. "But none o' them know where he'll be in a coupla o' hours. _I_ do."

"Why should we believe you?"

"'Cause they don't call me the _street oracle_ for nuthin', love!" Myrtle laughed, baring a set of brownish teeth that made Harry almost gag.

"I'll give you ten now, and ten after we find this bloke."

"You give me twenty now, or no deal."

"What makes you think we're that desperate to find him?"

A mysterious smile spread across Myrtle's grubby face. It was obvious they were grasping at straws, and people who passed information onto cops on a regular basis could smell the frustration of a lack of leads a mile away. It was their bread and whiskey, after all.

Harry sighed, made sure no curious eyes were upon them and pulled out a twenty from her purse.

"Club 21 on Lexington Street," Myrtle said snatching the note from Harry's hand. "Huge geezer, cropped haircut, broken nose. Got a small moon on the side o' his neck."

"Is he a dealer?"

"He's a…"

Myrtle squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if to clear it. She blinked them open again, looking around her shoulders and then up and around, gaze unfocused and wearing a blank expression as if in a trance.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, a bit concerned.

The woman tilted her head, a broad smile playing on her lips as her hand reached up to brush Harry's cheek. "Sweet, sweet, girl," she crooned.

Her gaze then shot over to Dempsey, her face twisting into an ugly mien. She pointed a bony finger at him, eyes round and accusing. "You!" she roared. "You stay away from 'er, ya hear me?!"

Myrtle then turned to Makepeace, fear written all over her pinched face.

"Be careful, me child!" she warned Harry, panic creeping into her voice. "It's all in the devil's hand!"

Directing an accusing glare at Dempsey, her hissed words sent a shiver up Harry's spine.

"Damn you fer letting the _beast_ inside you!"

 **[TBC…]**


	7. Under the Moonlight

_Thank you all for the comments and feedback (and for dismissing my stupid insecurities). I believe writing and storytelling, however, have a never-ending learning curve (a learning straight?), so if there is something that doesn't convince you as far as style or content, I also welcome constructive criticism. Writing is a lot of fun, and I realize I probably have a lot to learn still._

 _ **rytx**_ _– I once drove from San Antonio to the Midland/Odessa area on the same day. Didn't have a grasp as to how big Texas really was until then. I thought the friggin' ride would never end! Grateful for those 80mph speed limits. ;-)_

 _To all British readers, this chapter is supposed to be written under Harry's POV, so my apologies if I use a word that might not be used in England. I have *really* tried my best to keep it real, however I cannot help but second guess myself at times. Feel free to point out my blunders when you spot them.  
_

 _Like always, a special thanks to_ _ **Ostrich**_ _for her continued support._

 _Wishing you all a Happy Thursday…_

* * *

Under the Moonlight

 _Club 21_ looked nothing during the day as it did at night. For one, the place was deserted, save for a punk kid behind the bar with a bright green crest using a rag to wipe glass after glass with lacklustre enthusiasm, nobody else seemed to be around in the middle of the afternoon. The raunchy place had an undeniable decrepit feel to it. Without flashing lights and high beat music, the dark painted walls that enclosed the small establishment made it look even more eerie and depressing. The carpet was so dirty one could not tell apart the countless stains from the faded patterns.

Harry followed Dempsey across a small dance floor to the bar area, where the rancid smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke intensified as it clung to every piece of fabric from the upholstery to the battered curtains by the stage. She tried to ignore the reason why the soles of her shoes might be sticking to the floor, and was glad to be wearing one of her least expensive pair of flats.

But it was Myrtle's warning, if that's what you'd call it, what kept roaming inside her mind. Not that she doubted for a second the woman was as nutty as they come, but the fear in those small beady eyes had spooked her. Whatever she had seen in that off centred brain of hers, had certainly terrified her to the core. Despite her dramatic flair, Harry couldn't help feel sorry for her. And, even though rumours ran rampant all over _Soho_ , the idea that Myrtle could talk to spirits or hear voices from beyond was downright preposterous. The woman didn't _know_ Dempsey. If she believed for a second he could harm her in any way, her unearthly instincts were simply _dead_ wrong. On the contrary, Harry knew her partner would put his life on the line to protect her. He had done it before and, without a shred of doubt, he would indeed do it again.

And yet, for some odd reason, the ominous words kept replaying like an echo inside Harry's head, haunting her as she circled around the various small outdated tables and mismatched chairs. The place, with its pungent smell and soundless music, didn't help shake off the unnerving feeling, but at least it was shelter from the torrential rain that had begun pouring just seconds after they had walked into the building.

"Yew're about six aahrs too early," the youngster said in a thick cockney accent straight out of the East End. "We ain't open yet."

"We ain't here for the entertainment," Dempsey said. "We're lookin' for a guy that comes here. Or so we was told." Myrtle hadn't been overly specific as to the bloke's business at the club, so the question was kept equally vague. "Jay ' _The Barrel_ '. Ever heard o' him?"

"Why are yew lookin' fer 'im?"

Dempsey reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and produced his SI10 badge. "Just for a little chat," he grinned sardonically. "He here?"

The youngster's eyes narrowed as he tried to reconcile Dempsey's accent with the seemingly legit identification he'd just been shown. His attention then turned to Makepeace and his bafflement doubled. He shrugged, reckoning whatever ' _The Barrel_ ' had got himself into was none of his business, and pointed his chin towards the side of the stage.

"In the back," he replied, his attention back on the glasses.

They made their way past the thick stage curtains and walked down a narrow corridor leading to a partly ajar door at the far end. The rattling of glass bottles could be heard over the heavy rain that pounded angrily on the tin roof of the storage room. With the caution that comes from years of surprise encounters in places such as that one, Dempsey gently pushed the door open the rest of the way to find an enormous looking man lifting a large plastic bag off a rubbish container. He hurled the heavy bag through the rolled-up steel door on the opposite side right into the alley dumpster to avoid getting drenched, then swivelled around and, dusting his hands off, he seemed to freeze at the sight of the two strangers entering the storage room.

"Jay ' _The Barrel_ '?" Dempsey asked, trying to sound casual.

"Who wants to know?"

Clearly on edge, the man's eyes kept darting from Dempsey to Makepeace in a nervous dance, trying to puzzle through why a tough looking bloke and a sexy blonde might be looking for him at the club. He was stalling, obviously reluctant to confirm his identity. In the end, it was the small mark on the side of his neck, a crescent moon imprint a few inches below the right ear, what gave him away.

Once again, Dempsey took out his badge. "We need to ask you some questions," he said. His voice seemed cordial, but anyone who knew him as well as Harry did could tell he didn't trust the guy as far as he could throw him. "Do you happen to know a girl called Isabel Morales?"

' _The Barrel_ ' scratched his head with a shrug, and a sheepish smile that didn't quite reach his wary eyes formed on his face. He appeared ready to say something, when, in a flash, the smile vanished. With a sweeping motion, he shoved the rubbish bin to the side, making it tumble and forming a temporary barrier between him and the cops that granted him just enough time to dash outside into the back alley.

Dempsey spat out an angry curse and immediately followed suit, drawing out his service weapon a second after jumping agilely over the bin, which kept rolling sluggishly to the side. Harry went around it, rushing out right behind him into the alley.

"Police! Freeze!" Dempsey yelled, holding his gun at the ready and pointing it at the rapidly retreating man who sprinted over the wet pavement far quicker than expected for someone his size and bulk.

The fact that he wasn't armed as he ran away stopped Dempsey from firing his weapon, although he was clearly having second thoughts about pulling that trigger. With anger born out of frustration, he holstered his gun and began chasing the thug under the blinding rain. ' _The Barrel_ ' kept racing down the deserted alley like a bat out of hell. He eventually hit a metal mesh fence at the far end, but rather than giving up on his escape, he vaulted over it like a trained gorilla and landed hard on the other side. Less than five seconds later, Dempsey did the same, landing on the cracked street with a bit more grace and allowing him to gain a couple of seconds as he closed in on the other man.

Harry wasn't far behind, putting her four years of school gymnastics to good use, she leapt over the fence and landed on the pavement with the elegance of a cat. Once on the other side, she watched as ' _The Barrel_ ' shouldered his way past a small group of people huddling under the cover of an oversized umbrella, followed closely by Dempsey who did the same, clearing the path for her and leaving the group mouth agape as they watched in astonishment the frantic pursuit down the street.

 _Soho Park_ could be seen up ahead, and ' _The Barrel_ ' made a run for it, sorting through a herd of hooting cars and sliding tyres over the slippery crossroad. Closing the gap, Dempsey faced the same challenge a few short seconds behind him. Makepeace, on her part, decided to take the slightly longer side route, knowing the thug was most likely planning to take the lateral exit to the _Tottenham Court Road_ tube station where he might blend into the drenched crowd seeking shelter.

She made it safely to the other side of the road and cut across the grass, stepping over at least a dozen puddles, feeling the burn in her leg muscles gradually turn into numbness from both the cold and the strain. Harry was completely soaked through when she finally spotted Dempsey in the distance closing in on the other man who was about double his width but not as spry. With a final lunge worthy of the finest feline predator, her partner managed to tackle the giant, making them both fall to the ground just like a lion would take down a buffalo.

Unable to draw his weapon, Dempsey fought ' _The Barrel_ ' in a body to body combat, using all his strength to try and subdue the bulkier man to no avail. Still far away, Harry kept running towards them, heart pounding fiercely inside her chest, until she got close enough to take out her gun.

"Police!" she shouted to deaf ears from a few yards away. "Stand up and raise your hands! Do it _now_!"

She kept approaching the two writhing men on the ground, both struggling to get the upper hand. It was impossible to get a clear shot without the risk of hitting her partner, so she kept aiming the gun in their general direction, waiting for a break.

The tank man rolled onto his side and elbowed Dempsey hard on the ribs, making him grunt but failing to disengage from his tight grip. Visibly frustrated, he decided to change strategies by finding a way to lift both their bodies a couple of feet off the ground, only to let himself fall without mercy on Dempsey's side, smashing his left shoulder hard on the paved pathway under the crushing pressure of their combined weights.

This time Dempsey _did_ cry out in pain. He stopped fighting for a moment, trying to catch his breath, but ' _The Barrel_ ' refused to give him a break. Taking advantage of his adversary's vulnerability, he pressed down even harder, increasing the pressure to that shoulder tenfold and drawing a loud howl of agony out of his victim.

Harry watched the scene play out before her powerlessly. With a surge of determination, she placed her finger on the trigger, ready to take a shot. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a jogger approaching from the opposite end, head hidden under a deep hood, eyes trained on the ground and a Walkman tucked away under his rain jacket. He seemed oblivious to the wrestling match taking place a few yards ahead of him. Only when he was close enough, did he realize what was happening. But by then it was too late. Harry finally had a clear shot on Jay ' _The Barrel_ ' when the jogger stood in her line of fire. The thug, realizing what was happening and seeing only one way out, took that opportunity to give the jogger a harsh shove, forcing him to stumble and almost fall against Makepeace, while he took off towards the entrance of the Underground.

The exchange afforded Dempsey time enough to marginally recover, stagger to his feet and maintain the pursuit. He was once again closing the distance, with Harry right at his heels, having left the bewildered jogger soaking motionless under the pouring rain. They were just a few feet away, when ' _The Barrel_ ' reached a main intersection and began to cross it.

The double-decker bus applied the brakes at the last minute, but the slippery road made it impossible for the fifteen ton machine to come to a stop before running over the large man, who was hit head on at about forty kilometres an hour. He inevitably rolled under its left front and middle tyres, which dragged him a good twenty metres down the road.

"Shit!" Dempsey hissed, coming to a stop by the edge of the kerb.

He was panting heavily, damp hair sticking to his forehead in disarray while he clutched his left upper arm over his drenched windbreaker, a frown of defeat and frustration clouding his features.

Harry stood beside him, equally soaked and disheartened, watching in horror what was left of the ruffian as all traffic came to a stop around the accident scene. The rain kept falling hard on the ground, reflecting the headlights of the cars that donned over the dead man. The small crescent moon on his neck was barely recognizable through the mount of bone, flesh and blood that was now his body.

And, along with Jay ' _The Barrel_ ', died any chances they might have had to further their investigation that evening.

* * *

Five hours later they arrived at Dempsey's flat after having spent the entire afternoon and better part of the evening talking to the emergency services, the coroner and the local constabulary. As it was to be expected, Spikings had been less than pleased. In fact, traffic duty was mentioned several times throughout his interminable scolding spiel. His barked reproaches over the Merc's RT had been sharp and incisive, cutting deep into their already bruised sense of professional competence, leaving them both, but especially Dempsey, in a rather sombre mood.

They had rummaged through the victim's pockets, but all they had found was an almost empty pack of cigarettes, nearly two pounds in coins, and a business card that might have appeared plain at first sight, had it not been for the fact that there was no name, address or telephone number to possibly identify who might have given it to Jay ' _The Barrel'_. Nothing, except five cryptic words written in black ink over a white background.

 _The Men Behind the Curtain_

Tired and crushed by the unfortunate turn of events, they had agreed to call it a day. Without Jay ' _The Barrel_ ', they had just about ran out of leads, and the best they could hope for was for Isabel to open up about whoever might have sent her to the hotel room on the night of the murder. And even _that_ was a long stretch. Of course, there were other people who still needed to be interviewed and who might be able to provide some insight into the case, but as far as leads went, they had come up empty handed. Perhaps the forensics boys would have better luck coming up with answers once they finished their investigation or, at the very least, a clue that might point them in the right direction.

But, what about the strange business card they found on Jay ' _The Barrel_ '? Who the hell were these ' _men behind the curtain'_? Was it even worth investigating? Or would it send them on some bootless errand, making them waste precious time on a dead end?

As happened to be the case ever since the stupid investigation started, there seemed to be far more questions than there were answers.

"I'll arrange a visit with Lord Bishop first thing in the morning," Harry said listlessly, shrugging off her rain jacket. She raked her fingers through her tousled and still rather humid hair, cursing the dreadful weather that had stalked them throughout the evening. The rain, however, had left behind a quiet night, and a bright full moon now shone through the large window panels of the flat. "He might be able to tell us something more about the days leading to Charles' murder."

Dempsey closed the door behind them and dropped the car keys into an ashtray by the entrance. "Yeah, and maybe you could arrange another visit with your father too," he sighed sauntering into the living room. He took his windbreaker off with a grimace and flung it over the lat pull-down machine in the exercise nook.

"My father? Again?" Harry asked, bemused. "Whatever for?"

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Dempsey answered her question, his voice low. "Because the murder weapon belongs to him, and as you very well know we cannot tell him that without breaching at least twenty confidentiality clauses. Because they just found several of his prints all over the handle. And because…" he let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and purposely avoiding the intensity of her gaze. "Because he happens to be one of the main suspects in this investigation."

Harry's eyes widened.

 _He couldn't possibly believe…_

"Are you mad?" she accused, indignation coursing through every fibre of her being. "Do you really think my father would actually kill his best friend in cold blood with his own letter opener?"

"No, I don't," he answered evenly. "But the fact that you just asked me that question leads me to believe you might be too close to this case to look at it objectively. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised Spikings bought the crap I sold him this mornin' about you bein' an ace up our sleeve. If I was him, I would've pulled your ass off the case faster than you can say _stab wound_. Now, I'm countin' on you to keep it together. But you gotta think like a cop, Harry, not like his daughter. It don't look good for your father an' you know it."

Makepeace's shoulders slumped, pummelled by defeat at the truth behind his words. Dempsey looked as distraught as she felt at the prospect of Freddy being in such dire straits. The only way they could clear his name was by making headway in the investigation, and without leads they were basically up the creek without a paddle.

Trying to ease some of the mounting pressure, Dempsey suggested, "Look, why don't I order some Chinese, we wash up a little and—"

"I'm not hungry," she answered weakly.

"Princess," he crooned, closing the distance between them and cupping her cheek with his hand. "We're gonna sort this whole thing out, I promise."

She looked into his eyes, desperately needing to believe him, and found solace in the staunch conviction she found in them. They were a damn good team. They would get to the bottom of this. If there was something she could count on, that was it. Her lids closed as he planted a soft kiss on her forehead, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she leaned against him craving the warmth of his embrace.

"Dempsey?" she murmured.

"Hmmm?"

"You really _do_ need a shower," she said, pulling a chuckle from both of them.

"Yeah, no kiddin'!" he agreed sniffing at his shirt. Breaking into a sly smile, he added, "Care to join me? You built up a nice sweat too, babe!"

"Ladies don't sweat," she corrected sweetly. "We glisten!"

"Yeah, well, you were glistenin' like a pig back there," Dempsey teased through a lopsided grin.

The jab earned him a smack on the head with the biggest pillow Harry found on his sofa. His top shape reflexes made him lift his left arm to deflect it, action he immediately regretted when a searing pain rooted in his shoulder radiated down his arm and back.

"Fuckin' hell!" he growled, holding his bent arm with his right hand. New beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he tried to keep his breathing under control.

"I'm sorry," Harry quickly apologized. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay," Dempsey tried to smile, looking a bit pasty. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" she asked, afraid to even touch him for fear she might do more harm than good.

"Yeah, don't sweat it," he said, then smirked. "Sorry... I meant, don't _glisten_ it."

But guilt was a great shield against bad jokes. "You don't look fine."

"I don't, huh?" he chuckled, his pallor gradually returning back to normal. "You should see the other guy!"

"Not funny!" she cajoled through a reluctant giggle. "Where are the pills the doctor prescribed you last week? Do you still have them?"

"In the kitchen, but don't…"

But Harry was already on her way to the kitchen before he could protest further, and returned with the bottle in her hand less than a minute later.

Her frown said it all.

"The bottle is completely full!" she reproached. "Dempsey…!"

"Makepeace," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "I really don't need them, okay? Look, I'm gonna go take a shower. Hot water does wonders for this kinda thing. I'll be out in a jiffy." He quickly disappeared into the hallway, only to backtrack a second later. "Sure you don't wanna join me? Gets kinda lonely in there…"

Harry lifted her eyebrows with a gesture that screamed 'nice try' and tried not to laugh when he pouted pitifully, hanging his head low in resignation as he disappeared into the hallway.

Once she heard the shower running, she went to the guest bathroom by the entrance hall, where she took off her blouse to freshen up a bit. She stared at her reflection and smiled as she pondered on her partner's flirtatious disposition. The trait she had considered utterly reproachable not so long ago, she now found almost _endearing_. Clearly, his observation had been in jest just to lure her into the shower, and she would be lying to herself if she were to deny not having been tempted by his offer. It _was_ a tantalizing proposition. Truth be told, she had never taken a shower with a man before. Robert had certainly never suggested something so dreadfully improper.

As far as having sex in such a cramped and slippery confinement, she couldn't imagine it being very comfortable either. The sheer impracticality of it was just mindboggling! How would it even work? She was certain Dempsey would have no trouble lifting her weight, but still… She went over several scenarios inside her head, one more suggestive than the next, until her imagination ran away with her, forcing Harry to grip the edge of the washbasin tightly just to keep the abrupt rush of arousal in check.

She willed her quickening pulse to steady by taking in a deep breath, laughing at her own silliness on the exhale. She couldn't remember ever feeling so out of control. It was insane! When did it even happen? When did Dempsey stop being the infuriating partner she could barely tolerate, to become the man who could melt her heart with just the hint of a smile? Deep down she knew the physical attraction had always been there from the very beginning. It was their _emotional_ bond that had sneaked up on them, ebbing its way so cunningly, neither had really noticed until it had strangled their defences, rendering them obsolete.

After splashing some cold water on her face and washing up a bit, Harry felt the heat subside and the unexpected wave of sexual desire erode away. She reapplied a light layer of makeup, juvenile as it was, making sure to keep it natural and not overdo it. It was a cursory job, but at least she didn't look as pale and her mascara was no longer smudged. Her hair, on the other hand…

With a wince and a sigh, she switched off the light in the bathroom and made her way back to the lounge. She sat on the arm of the sofa next to the telephone and, finding their favourite Chinese take away menu, she skimmed through it and ordered a couple of egg rolls and some beef Lo Mein. Factoring in Dempsey's ravenous appetite as of late, she decided to throw in some chicken dumplings and a small order of Peking duck to make up for the cucumber sandwich fiasco of the previous day. She then headed to the kitchen hoping to find a bottle of wine or, at the very least, a couple of beers. She happened to find both, opting for a bottle of chilled Chardonnay that had yet to be opened. It was a bit odd for her to just wander about his apartment as if she owned the place, especially since she didn't exactly know her way around it all that well. They often would meet in her house when working late on a case. In fact, Harry could literally count on one hand the times she had agreed to come over to his place for any given reason.

Looking for a couple of wineglasses, she stumbled upon the note she'd left him before leaving for Winfield Hall the week before, the morning after _the kiss_. It was sticking out of Stephen King's _The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger_ as a page marker. She carefully pulled it out, remembering the uncertain emotions flowing through her as she wrote it, wondering how much to put on paper, and how much to keep to herself. And, even though it hadn't been more than a couple of sentences, the feelings laced between the words came to life once again.

 _He'd kept it._

The thought of him finding the note worth saving made her heart swell. Unable to hold back a smile, she carefully placed it back the way she'd found it and continued her search for the wineglasses, finding them eventually in one of the top cupboards.

The ointment they had bought for the shoulder the previous week after their visit to the emergency room was sticking out of a fruit bowl that contained a bunch of receipts, a small notebook, several uncapped pens, a bunch of unsharpened pencils, a small torch and an apple. Harry inspected the tube and shook her head in disbelief. It had hardly been used either.

 _How stubborn could her partner be?_

With a sigh of exasperation she carried the two wineglasses, the Chardonnay, the ointment and a corkscrew to the living room and, noticing the uncharacteristic tidiness of the coffee table, placed all the items carefully on top of it. She switched on the side lamp in lieu of the overhead light, finding it a bit more soothing to the eyes and trying to convince herself it had nothing to do with the intimacy the soft glow provided. By the time Dempsey got out of the shower she had filled up the two glasses with wine and was sitting on his black leather sofa reading a magazine.

"If you got that outta the bedroom, it ain't mine," he simpered.

Hundreds of butterflies in her stomach burst aflutter at the sight of him clad in black trainers, a grey t-shirt and running a towel over his damp hair. She also noted the five o'clock shadow he'd been sporting before jumping into the shower was now gone. The implication of that subtle detail intensified the rush of excitement that was already rolling through her.

Harry tried to conceal her nervousness by lifting the fitness magazine, exposing the ' _Protein Your Way into Leaner Muscle_ ' cover of that particular issue.

"How's the shoulder?" she asked, placing the magazine on the coffee table.

"Good!" he answered sitting down on the sofa beside her, towel hanging loosely from his neck. "Doesn't hurt one bit."

"It doesn't?" Harry doubted.

"Okay, maybe just a little bit," he confessed taking a sip from one of the glasses of Chardonnay.

"I thought so. Take off your shirt."

He turned to her, surprise and anticipation written all over his face. Harry showed him the ointment, indicating the innocence behind her command with an arched brow and a light tap on the tube. Dempsey didn't look too disappointed as he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the side along with the towel. He exposed his back to her, elbow propped on the armrest, head slightly turned to the side. Harry positioned herself behind him, squirted a dollop onto his shoulder blade, and began rubbing the translucent gel into the skin.

Dempsey's upper arm twitched slightly, and her hand froze on the spot.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No," he murmured. "It just felt cold for a second."

"It's just the initial reaction," she said, applying pressure with her thumbs over the taut muscle. "It will start warming up after a while."

"Just like somebody I know," he grinned and, a second later, so did she.

A long swipe down the left side of his back made him moan, and his eyes drifted shut. The strong smell of eucalyptus mingled with Dempsey's own unique scent—part soap, mostly male. Another guttural sound from deep within his throat made Harry's strokes turn from soothing to sensual, the intent behind her touch not so much to heal, but to caress… Her fingertips began tracing a lazy pattern all over his back and shoulder blades, applying and releasing pressure depending on the area. As her hand came around the curvature of his left shoulder, Dempsey took her gently by the wrist, turning his torso a fraction to get a better look at her. A mild tug prompted her forward, and she leaned in, edging closer to his side, bringing their faces mere inches apart. There was a moment of shared anticipation as their eyes locked and then, in a spur of mutual reverence, their lips touched, just barely.

The spark was _instant_.

His mouth hovered over hers like a feather, pleading or teasing, she wasn't quite sure, but she couldn't help succumb to its enticing spell. Harry felt, rather than heard, the soft word Dempsey breathed into her mouth. A term of endearment he'd used a thousand times before, only this time, it bypassed her brain and drove right through her heart. He closed his eyes and gently pried her lips apart with his own, not really deepening the kiss, but keeping it chaste, cherishing the moment.

He guided her hand down his naked chest, past his stomach, stopping just short of the waistline of his joggers, where he slowly caressed his way up her arm, making her skin tingle under the thin fabric of her blouse. His tongue slid out, gliding sensually across her bottom lip, luxuriating in its taste. The electrifying sensation made her gasp—a tight, quiet sound filled with longing. Her hand formed a fist at the hem of his trainers by his hip, years of mounting desire manifesting in that tight clutch, battling for the courage to dive beyond it, yet too shy to explore any further.

That divine rush of heat swimming deep below her navel surged the moment her tongue grazed his. The brief contact was enough to pull a quiet moan from both of them, and emboldened Dempsey to step up the ante. Harry let out another small gasp when she felt his wandering hand at the base of her breast, warm and firm. Even through the blouse and brassiere, her nipple responded when his thumb brushed over it, causing her back to bow into his touch. The whimper of delight that escaped from within her throat was lost inside his mouth as he now deepened the kiss, gently probing the vaguely familiar territory.

Pulling apart for an instant of bereft discontent, Dempsey skilfully swept her into his right arm and repositioned her flat on her back. He looked deep into her eyes, his pupils overflowing with arousal, a mirror image of her very own. Without saying a word, he brought his mouth down to her neck and slowly worked his way up the tender path set by her jugular. She tilted her head back, unable to keep her eyes open, enjoying the kissing, licking and nipping that was making her breath come out in short, silent spurts and driving her absolutely wild. Biting her lower lip to keep her gasping to a minimum, Harry wished the exquisite torture would never end.

Dempsey shifted on top of her, allowing his right arm to support most of his weight as his lips continued their languid trek up her neck, below her ear, along her jawline, across her cheek… When he found her mouth once again, their tongues rushed in search of each other, longing to tease, taste and feel its counterpart. Harry slid her arms under his and around his torso, flattening the palms of her hands against the tensed back muscles that kept flexing and extending as he moved over her. She dug her nails into the skin hard enough to leave marks, the need to feel him closer so overwhelming she wanted to scream.

The pitiful little whimper that escaped her throat could've been his name, though it sounded desperate, beseeching… completely unrecognizable to her own ears. Dempsey's left hand slithered its way through the buttons of the blouse and under her bra, cupping her breast, stroking and massaging the plump flesh tentatively at first, before his fondling turned daring and playful. Once again her back arched into that expert touch, yearning for its warmth. A raw cry full of need ripped out from deep inside her and echoed against his mouth. His fingers kept teasing her, seared her skin with every brush and every caress, and she wanted so much more…

Harry pumped her hips upwards, longing to meet his and pleased to discover his arousal rivalled her own. Using the armrest for leverage, she pushed her feet against it, one of her stretched legs sliding past it and knocking down the side lamp, sending it crashing to the floor, and yanking the cord from the wall. The room was suddenly submerged in shadows.

Startled, Harry flinched and her eyes squeezed shut.

 _It was 1970. She was atop the small bed of her mother's reading room, on the west wing of Winfield Hall. It was dark. Through her tears, she could see the tepid moonlight peeking through the window. Shards of glass all over the floor. Her heart was beating rapidly, pounding to a very different tune inside her chest..._

Pulse racing, she shoved Dempsey's hand away, breaking all contact sharply and rolling from under him to put some distance between them. His silhouette as he slowly sat up on the sofa was limned by the whitish light leaking through the window. Even in the semidarkness she could tell he was looking at her in complete bafflement.

"Harry?" he panted hoarsely. "What's the matter?"

She shook her head faintly, although he probably wasn't able to see the vague gesture in the dark.

"Did I go too far?" His confusion was palpable, making her heart clench. "I'm… I'm sorry… I didn't mean—"

"No," she quickly said. "It's not you."

A puzzling moment stretched between them.

"Is it the lamp?" Dempsey asked leaning over the armrest for a quick glance at the tumbled side lamp. "Screw it! Get back here."

Harry walked around the coffee table, and he stood up, his form now more defined as her eyes got gradually used to the dark surroundings. She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice. "It's actually getting kind of late. I better get going."

Dempsey studied her in perplexed silence for several seconds.

"Did I do somethin' wrong?" he ventured to ask.

"No," she shook her head again. "I just really need to get home…"

"Uhm, sure…" he gave in reluctantly. Resignation clung to his tone as he added, "I'll drive ya."

"It's okay, I can take a cab."

"Harry…" Dempsey went to switch on the main light. Brightness flooded the room and his brows creased. " _Jesus_! What…? You're white as a ghost!"

He walked over to her, concern written all over his face. Unable to comprehend the chasm that had suddenly opened between them, his eyes asked the questions his lips seemed unable to formulate. Harry hugged herself, offering him a nervous smile that was meant to reassure him, but that managed to do the complete opposite.

"I'm fine, really," she lied.

"But—"

"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" she blurted out before he could say anything else.

Harry grabbed her jacket, stood on tip-toe and gave him a quick peck on the mouth before rushing out the door without looking back. She hurried down the corridor, pressing the lift button several times in a futile attempt to summon it faster. Relief washed over her when the doors slid open a second later revealing a young Chinese man with ' _Golden Dragon'_ written across a well worn cap holding a white plastic bag full of what Harry guessed would have been their dinner. She brushed past him with a polite nod, taking his place inside the lift and pushing the button to the ground floor three more times that was really necessary.

Once the doors slid closed, she slumped against the wall and blinked away the bitter tears that had suddenly welled behind her eyelids.

 _No… It couldn't be happening… Not with him… Not with Dempsey…_

 **[TBC…]**

* * *

 _I want to wish you all a Merr-erm, Happy Christmas and various other holidays. I need to take a brief break from Thursday postings at the moment, but I promise to come back in the New Year with fresh new chapters._


	8. The Right to Remain Silent

_Hi guys! I hope everyone had a wonderful start to the year. Well, I leave you with this chapter. A special thanks to "Ostrich" for kicking the muse back into gear._

 _Happy Thursday to all!_

* * *

The right to remain silent

The London home of Lord Theodore Bishop was an elegant double fronted red brick house in Kengsinton, set behind a tall boxwood hedge and an imposing redwood gate. Its austere appearance was enhanced by the grayness of the day. The forecast predicted rain again. Struggling sunrays failed to filter through the rolling blanket of clouds, causing the temperature to plummet as the fading summer slowly bled into the heart of autumn.

Dempsey parked the Merc right in front of the house, choosing to ignore the prominently displayed 'do not park' signs posted at the beginning and the end of that particular stretch of pavement. He'd picked up Harry bright and early, having managed to book an appointment with the high court judge at seven o'clock in the morning. How his partner made it happen, he had no clue. In the end, he guessed, it really boiled down to who one knew.

He was determined not to bring up the awkward cliffhanger of the previous night. Once again, he was walking on eggshells around her, afraid to blow the whole thing off by opening his big damn mouth. Although it wasn't just his inadvertent ability to piss her off—they were both used to that. No. It went way deeper this time. Harry was either re-thinking the boundaries of their new relationship, or keeping something from him.

Probably both.

So, after she had mysteriously ran off last night, leaving his baffled ass with a serious case of the blue balls and enough Chinese take-out to feed the entire building, he'd sat like a lump on the couch reading the note she'd left him barely a week before and wondering if, perhaps, he had read too much into her words. Eventually he'd crumpled it into his fist and made a perfect basket into the bin next to his desk. He figured he'd call it an early night, tossing and turning for most of it only to come to the conclusion that he was _not_ going to pry into her personal business. The decision went against every fiber of his being, but the last thing he wanted was to add more pressure to her already burdened life. And even though she managed to hide it remarkably well, he could tell the investigation was causing her a hefty amount of stress. He could only hope that, one day soon, she would trust him enough to confide in him as a little more than a partner. Until then…

"How's the shoulder?" Harry asked, walking past the gate and up the few steps to the front door. "I could tell it was bothering you on the drive over."

 _Not nearly as much as not knowing what's running through that pretty head of yours, princess._

"I'll live."

"Please, tell me you at least took some pain medicine."

"I could tell you that, but white lies ain't my style, babe."

"Oh, Dempsey…" she grimaced with disapproval.

The door opened to reveal a tall, gray man with gaunt blue eyes. He regarded them through square, gunmetal spectacles resting over a high arched nose. His long boned face tapered into a pointed chin which was accentuated by his perfectly combed hair.

"Good morning, Lord Bishop," Harry said coolly.

"Harriet, I'm pleased you made it on time," he said. The impassiveness of the whole exchange didn't go amiss by Dempsey, who took off his sunglasses to better assess the old man.

"This is my partner, Lieutenant Dempsey," Harry introduced. "May we come in?"

The old man beckoned them in and they followed him a short distance into a study near the foyer, where he motioned for them to take a seat.

"You have been assigned to this case," Lord Bishop stated with such an inflection, it made it sound more like a question. "Police procedures have indeed changed a lot over the years."

Harry squared her shoulders and pursed her lips, a common reaction of hers every time she felt challenged or belittled. Dempsey knew the gesture well, having been the cause of it, whether by chance or on purpose, on repeated occasions.

"I talked to Freddy this morning," Lord Bishop said as he enthroned himself behind the large mahogany desk. "He is taking the unfortunate news rather well. Although, I don't think the awful reality has dawned on any of us just yet. It has been quite a shock. But, of course, unexpected deaths always are."

The judge focused on Harry without further elaboration, his pale blue eyes almost piercing a hole through his glasses and making the poignant silence that ensued more than a little uncomfortable.

"That's why we're here, sir," Dempsey stepped in, picking up on his partner's sudden inability to speak. "To ask you some questions about the week leadin' to Shaw's death. I understand you were at Winfield Hall with the victim right up to the night prior to the murder, is that right?"

Lord Bishop's eyebrows drew together and he regarded Dempsey with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. "You are American."

 _Wow, your powers of deduction are astounding, Judge._ "Sure am!" he answered cockishly, breaking into a crooked grin and enhancing his accent just for fun. They hadn't even spent five minutes with the guy, and he already hated his fucking guts. "But 'nough 'bout me. When _exactly_ did you last see Charles Shaw?"

Judging by the older man's deep scowl, the dislike was mutual. Harry shifted on her chair, but did not interject. Dempsey figured she was probably appalled by his blatant irreverence towards the petulant bastard, not that he gave a crap about social niceties at the moment. Under normal circumstances, such behavior would've earned him a withering glare from his partner but, for some odd reason, she had opted to take the backseat, keeping her expression unreadable.

"Am I in the list of suspects, Lieutenant?" Lord Bishop said darkly. "Should I take this unofficial meeting as a mere exchange of information to aid in your investigation, or should I call my barrister?"

"I'm just tryin' to get to the bottom of it, Judge."

"In that case I suggest you either check your badge at the door or get a subpoena, young man, because your arrogance is not going to get you very far with me."

"I thought we both wanted the same thing, _M'Lord_ ," Dempsey answered without skipping a beat.

The use of his title was uttered in jest, but only Makepeace picked up on that small detail. Lord Bishop cocked a contemptuous eyebrow and glared at the impertinent detective before him. He was obviously not used to being at the business end of an interrogation, and Dempsey's demeanor was slowly eroding his patience and noble decorum.

"What we're trying to find out," Harry said, taking the lead once again, albeit reluctantly, "is if he might have said something to you that struck you as odd or uncharacteristic. Something that, in retrospect, might lead you to believe he was in any danger. Was he meeting anyone in London upon his return from Winfield Hall? Anything that you can remember, sir, would be of invaluable help to us."

Lord Bishop curled his thin upper lip into a lackluster smile. " _And through the spaces of the dark, midnight shakes the memory, as a madman shakes a dead geranium._ "

Dempsey stared at the judge as if he'd just turned into an alien from outer space, and then turned his inquiring gaze to Makepeace.

"T.S. Eliot," she said, answering the unasked question.

Under his mask of gratification, Judge Bishop addressed her. "There's not much I can tell you about our conversations at your father's estate. I'm afraid they were all terribly boring. The glorified reminiscences of nostalgic old men, mostly. But I assure you, my dear, that if I were to remember anything that might help in your investigation, you will be the first to know."

* * *

A fucking waste of time. That's how Dempsey felt about the entire exchange. They stepped out of the polished mansion with a deep sense of defeat. Once inside the car, he switched on the engine, but remained still in his seat, staring out the windshield as his hands clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.

"Quite the character, isn't he?" Harry said through a humorless chuckle.

"What's up with high court judges in this country? Do they get a bonus by obstructin' the law or somethin'?"

"What do you expect, Dempsey?" she sighed, a hint of exasperation seeping into her voice. "You barge in there demanding answers like you're Clint _bloody_ Eastwood, of course he's bound to dislike you!"

"Oh, I don't give a rat's ass what he thinks o' me! What I'm tryin' hard to figure out is why the hell he dislikes _you_!"

Harry opened her mouth to say something, but her retort never materialized. She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his inquiring stare, opting instead to focus on the safer ground that was the gearbox between them. Dempsey scratched his temple, a convenient distraction from what he really wanted to do, which was shake her into _talking_ to him.

"Okay, so how 'bout this Earl of What's-his-face," he brought up, drumming his thumbs over the steering wheel. "When do we get to talk to him?"

"Earl of Shrewsbury," Harry said, her voice low key. "He's currently in _Courchevel_."

"Where?"

"The French Alps," she clarified, glancing up briefly. "He talked to Freddy last night. He's booking a flight back today. I talked to my father this morning and he told me he sounded completely distraught by the news, and that he's willing to meet with us the moment he gets in."

"I already like him better than leather face in there," he remarked, pointing his chin at the London brick mansion. "Tell me you have a better rapport with this guy than you do with the judge, because quite frankly, babe, penguins would've frozen their asses off durin' this last conversation."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, nonchalantly.

"I'm talkin' about the strange vibe between you and the judge. What's up with that? Did he ever send one of your boyfriends to prison or somethin'?"

His tone had been humorous, but it failed to draw even the tiniest smile from her. On the contrary, her lips primed, a deep scowl forming under her blonde fringe.

 _God dammit! It's like talking to a fuckin' wall!_

Dempsey hung his head, giving up on his pursuit. It was obvious she wasn't going to open up to him.

"How come you trust me with your life, but you don't trust me with your _feelings_ , princess?" he asked softly.

Her lips curved into a forced smile that disappeared almost as fast as it had formed, her gaze once again steadfast on the gearbox.

"I trust you," she said in a thin voice.

"You sure 'bout that?"

"You know I do!"

Dempsey nodded slowly, but his eyebrows arched with an ironic air that gave away just how unconvinced he really was about it. Harry exhaled a long sigh, jutting her jaw to the side in a futile attempt to reel in the emotions that were welling up inside her.

"Look, I know you're wondering about last night," she said slowly. "I wish I could explain..."

It was obvious she was having trouble getting the words out. Everything about her attitude displayed a big red light on their possible relationship. It was as if she was trying to take it all back, but was too afraid to break it off or hurt his feelings, so Dempsey decided to send it all to hell and bite the bullet. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the iron fist that was squeezing his heart to a pulp.

"You wanna call it quits?"

Harry's head snapped up, her clear blue eyes reflecting his doubt.

"Is that a question or a suggestion, Dempsey?"

He was too shocked to answer, realizing that the question might have been ambiguous enough to be so blaringly misinterpreted. But Harry barged on, unaware of how much her words had already stung, and going for the kill.

"I'm sorry I wasn't ready to jump into your bed at the drop of a hat!"

Dempsey tampered down the cold blue fury that began to burn in his gut.

"You think this is about sex?" he hissed in a cold, dark voice. "Jesus, Harry! I thought you knew me by now! When was the last time you saw me even _look_ at another woman! What else do I have to do to show you what you mean to me, damn it! You really believe all I care about is 'takin' you to bed'? Well I got news for you, sweetheart, all I really care about is _you_!"

Dempsey inwardly winced. _Nice goin' big mouth!_ But his rant seemed to have stunned Harry into staunch silence. She simply sat there like a statue, eyes wide and mouth slightly opened.

"I'm _not_ givin' up," he said firmly, focusing squarely on her eyes.

Harry bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling, her emotions obviously strung tightly.

"I really wanted to spend last night with you," she finally whispered. "You have no idea _how much_."

Something deep inside Dempsey's chest tightened. She was holding it together remarkably well, but the pain that had belied her statement had hit them both hard. His hand reached up to cup her cheek, and she tilted her face into his touch.

"Talk to me, Harry." He had spoken in such a soft voice, it wasn't clear whether he'd said 'Harry' or 'honey'. "Whatever it is, I'm here for ya."

Anything that she might have confessed at that point was thwarted by the crackling sound of the radio transmitter.

" _Control to Charlie Five, come in please…"_

It took them a second to emerge from their bubble and look at the RT, Dempsey with annoyance and Makepeace with something akin to relief. There had been a tinge of controlled urgency in Chas' voice at the other side of the line that became obvious when he repeated the same words for a second time.

Dempsey sighed, snatching the receiver without much enthusiasm and speaking blandly into it. "Charlie Five to Control, go ahead, Chas."

" _There's been a new development on the Charles Shaw case. You are to report to Spikings immediately_. _Over._ "

"Okay, tell the boss we'll be there in 'bout twenty minutes. Over and out."

* * *

As promised, they both walked through the Superintendent's office door fifteen minutes later. Spikings was on the phone and, glancing up at them, held up a finger. "Yes. Yes, I understand, sir," he was saying, speaking into the mouthpiece. "It will be sorted out as soon as we can." He motioned his detectives to take a seat while he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. "Very well, sir, I'll let you know."

He looked a bit flustered. Not that Spikings ever had the temperament of a Buddhist monk, despite his slight resemblance to the prophet, but even by his standards, the man was clearly jittery. Face red as a beet, he smashed the phone down on its cradle hard enough to make the entire desk rattle.

"We've got a bit of a problem," he gritted with restrained anger. "Forensics has identified five different sets of prints on the murder weapon, three of which have been matched. The first belonging to its rightful owner Lord Winfield, the second to one Abbot Chesterfield and the third to one… Harriet Makepeace."

"What 'bout the other two?" Dempsey asked.

"Partial and unmatchable, but clearly different from the other three." Spikings leaned over his desk, elbows resting on the open report before him. "But that's really the least of my concerns right now. And it is certainly the least of _your_ concerns, Sergeant."

"Sir?" Harry frowned, matching the confused expression on Dempsey's face.

Spikings stared at Makepeace long and hard. His eyes were a bit haunted, as if the weight of not only the city's safety, but the entire damn kingdom rested on his shoulders. There was a slight glimmer of paternal protectiveness on that stern glare that he reserved only for her.

"Among the items they found on the victim's body, there was a wallet with his MP identification, a Brook's membership card, three twenty pound notes, two five pound notes, several business cards and a recent bank statement from the Royal Bank of Scotland." Spikings took off his reading spectacles as soon as he finished reading the page he'd produced from inside the folder. "Most of the business cards they found were of nearby businesses, however, one of them stood out from the rest. It had the words ' _the men behind the curtain_ ' written on it, and nothing else," he frowned chewing on the leg of his glasses. He completely missed the conspiratorial glance exchanged by the two detectives before him.

"Now for the reason I wanted you here. Chas and I made some inquiries into those accounts, and everything seemed to be in order. Shaw paid his bills on time, he had some investments which were yielding decent dividends, nothing extravagant, nothing out of the ordinary… until we found a steady stream of money going into a separate bank account at Standard Chartered. Eight hundred and fifty pounds every month until six months ago, when the payments suddenly stopped. We looked into that bank account. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that the mysterious account belongs to none other than one Alfred Nicholas Winfield."

"Freddy?" Harry gasped. "But…"

"My dear girl," Spikings said. "Your father has no witness to place him at Winfield Hall on the night in question, his prints are all over the assault weapon and, as of a couple of hours ago, we discovered a possible motive."

"What…? You can't be serious, sir!" Harry stuttered, turning to Dempsey for support, only to find him slumped forward on the chair with a grim expression on his face and unwilling to meet her eyes.

"I don't like it any better than you do, Sergeant!" he growled, leaning forward on his desk, his posture inadvertently menacing. "But I have the home office on my back to find a possible suspect and a satisfactory resolution to this case which, I must remind you, is a very uncomfortable one for everyone involved given the victim's… sexual fetish."

"With all due respect, sir, but all the evidence you mentioned only proves we're grasping at straws here!"

"Harry's right, boss. All that evidence is circumstantial at best," Dempsey said, sounding less convincing than Harry had hoped. At least he was taking her side. A moment ago, she had doubted that much.

"Circumstantial evidence is all we've got, Lieutenant! If you want the evidence to be more conclusive you're going to have to conduct a much more thorough investigation than you've done so far! And when I say you, I mean just _you_ ," Spikings specified pointing a chubby finger at Dempsey. His gaze then traveled to Makepeace, and his voice mellowed, although just fractionally. "As you can probably imagine, Sergeant, I'm forced to pull you off the case effective immediately."

"No, you can't do that!" Harry pleaded in a panic and, standing up, she turned to her partner for support once again. "Dempsey! Tell him… I can do this! You _know_ I can!"

Dempsey stood up and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Calm down, Harry," he soothed, not really taking her side of the argument, but rather placating her distress.

Harry pulled away from him. "Don't tell me to calm down!" she accused. "It is my _father_ we're talking about!"

"Precisely!" Spikings said dryly. "And my word on this is final!"

The blood had rapidly drained from Harry's face and her skin looked almost translucent. Spikings plopped down on his chair, making it creak in protest under his weight. He shuffled through a stack of papers from which he singled out a form both Dempsey and Makepeace had celebrated hundreds of times before, but right now appeared more like the executioner's axe.

In front of them, printed on that pale yellow hue from which all of SI10's official forms were conceived, was an order of arrest for Lord Winfield.

 **[TBC…]**

* * *

 _I will keep updating every two Thursdays, so see you in a couple of weeks. ;-)_


	9. A Trout in the Milk

Hi guys! So glad to see you are still enjoying the story. It has been a hectic couple of weeks, so my energy has shifted a bit, but come February, I hope to be able to spend more time writing. Thank you so much for your kind reviews. They are greatly appreciated. And a very special thanks as always to **Ostrich** , who keeps me on my toes and makes the process so much fun.

Happy Thursday! :-)

* * *

A Trout in the Milk

"Please, sir, let Dempsey do it!" Harry begged Spikings.

She'd begrudgingly stopped fighting against her boss' decision to pull the plug on her involvement in the case, but she'd be damned if she was going to allow just anybody serve her father with the order for his arrest, even if Chas had earned a well-deserved reputation for displaying the highest professionalism for such a task, making him the go-to person for the job in the department. Funny how, unless an arrest was performed upon nailing someone on the spot, no detective in the office with half a brain would request Dempsey to show up on somebody's step to serve them with such order. One, because her partner was sorely lacking in the finesse department when dealing with most criminals, regardless of their background; and two, because he seemed to enjoy the thrill of the hunt that led to nabbing someone in the act, as opposed to the anticlimactic chore of presenting somebody with a boring piece of paper and escorting them back to the factory.

But this was Freddy they were talking about and, crazy as it sounded, Dempsey was the only person she trusted enough to soften the blow. It was a risky plea, given the fact that Spikings was on the fence regarding her partner's involvement on the case as well, but she couldn't stand the thought of Freddy being arrested by anybody else, and it was crystal clear that doing it herself was out of the question.

Their boss looked at them warily while he weighed his options, but finally caved under the condition they brought Freddy into headquarters for questioning before noon, and they both had the brains not to argue. Spikings sent Makepeace a warning glance, not saying what they were all thinking. But, even if her boss forbade it right there and then, she would still accompany Dempsey to Winfield Hall to stand by her father at the moment of his arrest.

There was a thought she never imagined she would consider! It seemed as if her entire, well-organized life was splintering into a million sharp pieces, each one determined to slice into her emotions.

Her morning had started just as grey as the day itself. So, for the second time in less than a week, they drove all the way to Kent, this time in dejected silence. Sitting in the passenger seat, she stared out the windshield, watching the taillights of the other vehicles and the wipers slap away the ever-falling rain. Freddy's Jaguar was still parked at the office car park, but that was the least of her problems at the moment.

"You still haven't said anything about this latest development," Harry said, speaking for the first time since they left London. "So, do you think my father is a killer, Dempsey?"

The words had sliced the space between them like a razor. He appeared to be thinking hard, trying to come up with the right answer, or maybe, just one that wouldn't pierce through her heart.

"What I think doesn't really matter," Dempsey answered, not taking his eyes off the road.

"It matters to me," she said.

She caught the shadow of his gaze, fast and somber.

"I don't _want_ to believe it," he answered darkly.

Harry let out a short, humorless chuckle. "I can't believe you! You have already condemned him!"

"That's not what I said, babe."

"Not in so many words, no. But it's quite clear that you have considered the possibility, haven't you?"

Dempsey let out a long sigh and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I'm tryin' to think like a cop, Harry," he said, the calmness in his voice slipping away. "And right now I can't talk to you as my partner, so maybe we should just lay off the subject, huh?"

"Just because Spikings has taken me off the case that doesn't mean I can stop thinking like a police detective, Dempsey! I thought _you_ of all people would understand that!"

"This ain't 'bout Spikings or you being off the case, for godssake!" he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "Do you think I like this any better than you do? In about ten minutes, I'm gonna be arresting your father! It ain't a walk in the park for me either, sweetheart!"

"You're not even sure of his innocence!" she shot back, her emotions strung like tight barbed wire. "How hard can it be for you?"

"Geez, I don't know, Makepeace," he rumbled. "Maybe when you care deeply 'bout someone _their_ worries become _your_ worries, _their_ pain becomes _your_ pain… Call me crazy, but I thought that was what lo…" he bit his lower lip, frown firmly in place, "…how things worked."

Heart hammering, Harry dropped her gaze to her lap. She didn't know what to say as she sat there, listening to the crunching of the tires over the loose gravel. They were now driving through the countryside, the beams of the Merc's headlights cutting through the rain, where just a few summer cottages spattered along the way. Dempsey kept his focus on the road, perhaps expecting an answer, or some kind of reciprocity, although she couldn't be sure.

"I'm sorry," she finally mumbled.

Although she wasn't really sure what she was apologizing for. Was it because she had blown the whole conversation out of proportion or for her inability to acknowledge his off-the-wall confession? It had sounded so sincere, almost as if he meant…

"It's okay, princess."

His answer had been just as ambiguous as her apology and, in a way, they both suspected it was for the best not to dwell on the subject. Neither of them were ready to dive into those murky waters yet. And, besides, it wasn't the time or the place to focus on anything other than the unfortunate task at hand.

The moment they pulled into the driveway at Winfield Hall their trepidation increased tenfold. They both rushed out of the car, pulling their rain jackets over their heads as they quickly climbed up the stairs and under the shelter of the front balcony, where Dempsey offered Harry reassuring nod.

 _It's gonna be okay_ , it said.

Abbot welcomed them in, and they followed the valet into the study, where Freddy sat reading, a glass of expensive scotch and a pipe by his side. His face brightened momentarily at the site of his daughter and her American partner, but his expression soon became sullen, mirroring those in front of him.

Dempsey cleared his throat.

"Lord Winfield, sir," he said. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

* * *

Freddy sat poised behind the small wooden table, his good old boy smile sadly missing in the twenty minutes they'd been waiting for Spikings in one of the interview rooms. Harry was beside him, holding his hand in a gesture of helpless comfort, while Dempsey leaned on the far wall, giving father and daughter some privacy, not that many thoughts had been exchanged on the drive back, or even while they'd been waiting.

Eventually the door opened and Chas poked his head around it and apologized for the delay. He told them the Superintendent had been called into the Commissioner's office for an emergency meeting, and would still be a while before he could make it.

"This is ridiculous!" Harry groused the moment Chas left the room. "We shouldn't even _be_ here!"

"So what's going to happen now?" Freddy asked. He looked older and worn. "Will I be spending the night in a cell?"

The thought of her father sleeping on a dirty jail cot made Harry furious. "I certainly hope not!"

"We can probably get the boss to agree to your release," Dempsey said pushing away from the wall and walking toward them. He placed his elbows on the backrest of one of the chairs near the table and leaned his weight forward as he stood across from them. "You will have to sign a form certifying you will show up in court to set a hearing date for your trial. They'll send you a written notification. I strongly recommend you get an attorney, sir."

"A solicitor," Harry translated softly, noticing the blank expression on her father's face. "I will give Charles a call as soon as we get home."

"Should I be worried?" Freddy asked, looking up at Dempsey like a child would a caretaker.

"The evidence against you is not very solid. Me 'n your daughter were talkin' about it earlier, and we both think the prosecution is gonna have a hard time makin' these charges stick."

"In your experience," Freddy said shifting his gaze from his daughter to her partner and cutting through the empty legal jargon. "What are my chances? Am I going to go to prison?"

"No, daddy!" Harry denied adamantly. "We're going to do everything in our power to make sure that doesn't happen."

"My dear girl, I'm afraid my fate is up to the barristers at this point."

"That's not entirely true," Dempsey said through a long sigh. "Look, we need to get enough evidence to clear you of all charges. Our investigation ain't over yet, and I intend to get to the bottom of this case."

"So do I," Harry stated holding her partner's stare. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she sent a furtive glance towards the double sided mirror and added, "And don't try to stop me, I don't care what Spikings said, I will not lay off this case."

Dempsey's lips curled into a lopsided grin. "The walkin' rule book defyin' a higher authority?" he said, his voice equally cautious. "I've been a bad influence on you, princess."

"I'm serious, Dempsey!"

"Hey, you don't gotta convince _me_ , partner. I kinda like this darker side o'yours."

Freddy kept looking listlessly from one to the other, his white bushy eyebrows drawing together in slight bewilderment. "Has Harriet been taken off this case?"

Harry matched her father's frown. Folding her arms over her chest, she answered. "Spikings thinks I'm too close to this investigation, that my judgment has been impaired."

"Well, has it?" Freddy asked.

Both Makepeace and Dempsey answered in unison: 'No!' 'Yes'. She turned her head sharply towards her partner, her blue eyes piercing into his.

"Look, I ain't tellin' you not to get involved here," Dempsey shrugged. "I don't think I could stop you anyhow. But you gotta at least realize that your feelings could get in the way. I told you once work and emotion don't go together, and I stand by that. All I'm askin' you, is to at least admit it."

"James is right, old girl," Freddy agreed. "You know I never get involved in your affairs, and I would never presume to tell you what to do, whether it is regarding your career or your personal life. But your job is dangerous enough as it is. And I could never forgive myself if I were to be the cause of any harm coming your way."

"I know what I'm doing."

She could detect the stirrings of them ganging up on her, and became a bit annoyed at the prospect. Her mind had been made, and nothing either of them could say would stop her from ploughing ahead with the investigation.

"Just, please, be careful," Freddy pleaded softly.

"Don't worry, sir," Dempsey winked, attempting to put the old man at ease. "I won't let her get into too much trouble."

"Excuse me?" Harry raised a defiant eyebrow. "What do you mean ' _let me_ '?"

"Relax, _partner_! All I meant was that I got your back."

Her annoyance had got in the way of her judgment, and only after reading the intensity Dempsey's stare did it dawn on her that all he was trying to do was make light of the situation to give Freddy some peace of mind, so she managed to summon a smile of her own and played along.

"And I got yours, Lieutenant."

Dempsey nodded, a slight twitch of his eyebrow telegraphing a ' _nice save_ ' from across the table. Tired of waiting for their boss to show up, Dempsey finally came around the chair and sat down glancing at his watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes.

"Sir, I've been meaning to ask you," he began, his eyes narrowing as he focused on an empty spot on the table. "Can anybody corroborate you were in Winfield Hall on Sunday night?"

"I gave everybody the night off, I'm sure I've mentioned that," Freddy answered.

"Yeah, I know," Dempsey said, waving his hand dismissively, "but did you get any visitors, did you make or receive any phone calls, did you… I don't know, order take-ou—away?"

Lord Winfield frowned, trying to remember. "No. I don't think so. I was rather tired that night. I went to bed quite early."

"Right." Dempsey sighed as his eyes met Harry's briefly, both equally disappointed. "We were supposed to wait for Spikings to go over all this, but what the hell… Sir, did you know they pulled a letter opener with the Winfield coat of arms from the victim's back?"

Freddy's face drained of all color, his eyes going wide. "N—no… I must say I didn't."

"When did you first realize the letter opener was missin'?"

"Lieutenant!" Harry reproached angrily.

She knew the tactic and could not believe her partner had just used it on her father. It was a trick question. Had Freddy given a definite answer, he would self-incriminate into admitting he in fact knew the item had been missing, giving them grounds to twist and misconstrue his previous statement. In most cases, witnesses became so flustered and confused at that point they'd end up spilling the beans on everything ranging from stealing a simple chocolate bar to devising an elaborate plot to kill the Queen.

"I'm sorry." Dempsey's apology was accompanied by a quick wince. It sounded genuine, a mistake born out of habit. "Did you notice any of your letter openers goin' missin' in the past few days?"

Freddy shook his head from side to side slowly. He looked haunted. "No…"

"Charles Shaw had hired a prostitute the night he was murdered," Dempsey continued, his voice even. "Do you know if he had paid for sex before?"

Harry rolled her eyes and sent him a 'give me a break' kind of look. Did he really believe Lord Winfield would spend his evenings reclining against his Victorian divan talking sex with his house guests with a glass of Montrachet in one hand and a fine cigar on the other? But her cynicism washed away in a cold wave of surprise when she noticed Freddy hesitate.

"Yes," he uttered, his eyes drooping shut.

"Yes?" Harry repeated, astonished.

Dempsey prompted him to continue with a quiet, "Sir?"

"Charles got into some serious trouble a few years ago," Freddy said, his voice hollow. "An investigative reporter found out about his… disturbing sexual habits. He threatened to bring everything to light unless he was paid a large sum of money."

"How much money?" Dempsey asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"One hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds."

Dempsey let out a whistle out of sheer amazement.

"But you see, Charles didn't have that kind of liquidity," Freddy continued. "That's when he came to me for help. He was rather desperate, so I decided to help him out. I owed him that much."

"You owed him? For what?" Dempsey frowned.

"We were together in World War II, in the 4th Cavalry Brigade. He saved my life in North Africa while waging battle against General Rommel's forces."

"You fought against the Desert Fox?"

"It sounds more glorious than it really was," Freddy whispered. "War is a rather cruel affair."

The respect and admiration that Dempsey had shown by Lord Winfield's account blended into something darker after the last statement. "I know," he murmured. He seemed lost in his inner thoughts for a moment before travelling back to the present. "So, you lent Charles Shaw the money to pay off this reporter."

"Yes, precisely," Freddy sighed. "He promised to make monthly payments, and I promised not to mention it ever again."

"Extortion is a crime. Why didn't you report this guy to the authorities?"

"There was too much at stake. If the story were to come out, it would've ruined his reputation."

Harry felt anger and resentment towards the man who she'd regarded as a second father for most of her childhood. "He should've thought of that before jumping into bed with another prostitute!" she sneered.

Lord Winfield turned to his daughter. "Harriet!"

"Objectivity, Sergeant…" Dempsey warned.

"I didn't know he had made a habit of it," Freddy said, still visibly shaken by recent revelations. "I thought it had been just a one-time deal."

"Do 'the men behind the curtain' mean anythin' to you, sir?"

Freddy blinked a couple of times, as if trying to remember something. "The men beh—"

The door swung open and Spikings walked into the interrogation room with a determined stride carrying a folder under his arm. He didn't look happy at all, and when his gaze fell upon Harry, the already deep frown creasing his forehead intensified.

"Good afternoon, Lord Winfield," he greeted, dropping the folder unceremoniously on top of the desk. "Makepeace, I'm going to have to ask you to please step outside."

"But, sir—"

"That's an order, Sergeant!"

She looked from her boss to her father and then to her partner, who offered her a reassuring wink. There was really no point in arguing and she could really use a break so, she stood up without saying a word and left the room, anger and resentment tainting her every movement.

For the next hour she sat alone at her desk, doodling nonsense, her mind adrift. The office was unusually quiet for an early afternoon. Chas had gathered everybody in the conference room for debriefing and for detectives report back on their current investigations, including Shaw's murder. She knew the department was stretched thin, despite the help from other agencies on this particular case. Not surprisingly, Spikings had probably left specific instructions and she had not been invited to join, which suited her just fine, as it allowed her to think about the case without any trivial distractions.

The headache that had started early that afternoon and that had been exacerbated by the latent tension during her father's questioning, was now beginning to pound inside her skull, but she still tried to puzzle through the handful of facts they'd gathered so far. A dead MP, a crime of passion, Freddy's letter opener and a Mexican prostitute. What was the link? Where could they start? They were wasting precious time with an innocent man in the interrogation room when they could be out there, doing some of that leg work Dempsey liked so much. They still had a lot of work to do, they had yet to talk to the hotel staff, even though Fry had already talked to most of them but, given their lack of solid leads, it couldn't hurt to double check.

The pen kept sliding over the sheet of paper to the tune of her absentminded hand. At one point, Harry stopped to focus on what she had drawn: a smiling snowman, something resembling a cat, three five pointed stars, several unidentifiable scribbles… and a name. It came as a mild shock to her, but still couldn't hold back a smile.

It was a little after half past three when Dempsey walked into the office looking a bit more worn than he had earlier. Harry stood up and rushed to him before he had even reached their desks, her face an open question mark.

"He's downstairs," he informed her. "Spikings is arranging for his release pending his court appearance."

"What did you talk about all this time? Did Spikings bring up anything I should know about?"

"Relax, princess," he said through a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "All you missed was the usual formalities. Everythin' else was pretty much covered before you left. How're you holdin' up?"

"I'm fine, Dempsey," she quickly dismissed. "I'm going to take my father home. He probably needs to rest and perhaps eat something."

"You're gonna drive all the way to Kent, _now_?"

"Not _that_ home. His London home," she clarified grabbing her handbag and her jacket. Noticing the doodle-filled paper on the desk, she quickly grabbed it, scrunched it, and threw it into the paper bin. "It's just a five minute drive from my house."

"I can drop you guys off if you want," Dempsey offered.

"That won't be necessary, thanks," she said digging into her bag searching for the car keys. "My father's car is parked downstairs."

"Okay," he just said, his head low.

He stood silently by the door, staring at the floor, his hands stuck inside the back pockets of his jeans, and it dawned on her just how aloof she was acting toward him. He certainly didn't deserve it.

She closed in on him and offered him a kind smile that he caught the moment he raised his eyes. "Listen, why don't you go to my house," she suggested sounding more seductive than she had anticipated. "I'll meet you there after I'm done."

His face brightened, eyebrow arched in evident surprise. "Yeah?" he grinned, looking at her through thick lashes in that way that always made her heart skip a beat.

She unhooked the house key from the key ring and offered it to him. "Please, use the front door this time," she quipped.

They were both aware her invitation might progress beyond a simple home visit. She felt a niggle of anticipation at that and, with it, an escalation to the anxious feeling that had been with her since they had crossed that forbidden line.

 **[TBC…]**


	10. Shadows of the Past

Thank you all for your continued support and feedback. Sorry these updates are every two weeks now, but the muse is being stubborn, and has me stuck on a particular future chapter. I hope I get past this writer's block soon. It is quite a drag. Bleh!

 _Guest,_ the 'trout in the milk' reference would be equivalent to something like 'the proof is in the pudding'. The truth, however, is that I suck at coming up with titles, and I think that one takes the cake. ;P

Anyway, Happy Thursday, everyone!

* * *

Shadows of the Past

There was something eerie about the case. Dempsey couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but he suspected the facts went beyond the murder of a prominent Member of Parliament. The details just didn't add up. It wasn't just about Lord Winfield's possible involvement, which he couldn't entirely discard, not that he would ever tell that to Makepeace, but where in the hell did the Mexican girl fit into all this? That was one thread he intended to pull, and he wouldn't stop pulling until he got to the truth. So, as the elevator doors opened to the fifth floor of the building, freeing him from that unmistakable smell shared by every older generation lift in the world, and he walked down the corridor with walls and carpets that would have been considered retro two decades ago, Dempsey made it to the door of the apartment determined to get some answers.

He knocked in lieu of ringing the bell—three short taps, a SI10 code to let the detectives inside know it wasn't a stranger snooping around. It was Watson who opened the door, looking just as bored as Dave, who walked into view right behind him, mug of what smelled like freshly brewed coffee in his hand.

"How's the girl?" Dempsey asked, leading the way through the small entrance hall and into the living area.

"She woke up about an hour ago," Dave replied pointing towards the room with the index finger of the hand that was surrounding the mug. "Spent most of yesterday and today sleeping."

"Methadone?"

"Yeah," Watson nodded. "Seems to have worked. At least, she's stopped mumbling nonsense and cursing in Spanish, which is a bit of a relief if you ask me."

Dempsey found the girl in bed, facing the wall and very still. The blinds were partially closed, the light inside the room dim enough to see her contour. She stiffened almost unperceptively and he knew she was aware of his presence.

"Mornin' sunshine!" he sang, opening the blinds completely. It was another gray day, but still bright enough to make her wince against the tepid brightness.

"Fuck off, gringo!" she groaned.

 _So much for not swearing no more…_

With that warm welcome, she curled into a ball and pulled the covers over her head. The air in the room was a little stale, so Dempsey opened the small window that led to an inside patio, which didn't do much to freshen the place.

"Good afternoon to you too, sweetheart," he jibed stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sport jacket. "And how're you feelin' today?"

"Like you give a shit," she said hoarsely from under the covers. "What the hell do you want now?"

"I want answers," Dempsey said casually, sitting on the flimsy chair the boys had brought into the room. "Names. Places. Landmarks…"

"I gave you a name already! _Haz tu trabajo, pendejo_!"

"This _is_ my job," he retorted. "Gettin' information outta uncooperative witnesses. I'm pretty good at it too, so don't make me show off my skills. Those guys out there get a little testy when I do."

The bundle under the covers remained still and silent for a few moments, and Dempsey had to hold back a chuckle. He was in a good mood, after all. He and Harry had a date tonight, or at least something that might resemble one... The whole situation with her father was bound to distract her from focusing on anything else, understandably so. He still wondered if she'd be up for it under the circumstances. Perhaps he was being totally selfish for wanting to have sex with her when so much in her life was at stake. Perhaps he should be a gentleman considerate enough to call the whole thing off. Or, perhaps, _she_ desperately needed whatever was to happen tonight as a distraction from it all…

Truth be told, Dempsey didn't quite know what to expect, although the way she had smiled at him when she gave him the key to her house, led him to believe this may very well be _the night_. He made a mental note to stop by the store to get some expensive wine. He wanted tonight to be perfect, or as close to perfect as one could aim for given how messed up things had turned out. In the end, he just wished he could help her relax, have a good time and, maybe, make her forget about all her troubles for a little while...

"Did you find Jay 'the Barrel'?" Isabel asked, her face peeking out from under the sheets.

"Yes, we did."

"Didja get anythin' outta him?"

Dempsey let out a long sigh, leaning back against the chair. "Not much. I believe they had to use a spatula to scrape him off the road after gettin' hit by a double-decker."

There was a pregnant silence that followed as she digested the news. With a small voice, she asked, "H-he's dead?"

"As a doorknob."

All Dempsey could see of her were two big, haunted eyes that studied him from under the covers in obvious disbelief. "What 'bout the others?" she whispered.

"What 'others'?" he asked, leaning forward on the chair. She was about to spill the beans on something, he could feel it. When she began retreating back into her shell, he pressed on, "What others?!"

Isabel sat up on the bed slowly and leaned her back against the headboard. This time she was wearing a plain gray t-shirt, courtesy of the administration staff at SI10. She tucked a strand of long dark hair behind her ear and swallowed dryly a couple of times. Dempsey would have offered her some water, but he was afraid she might just lose her nerve and clam up again, and he was not going to take that risk.

"He was our keeper," she finally said. "Who'll take care of them now?"

"There're other girls like you? How many?"

She lifted one shoulder in a mild shrug. "A dozen, sometimes less… Some girls are taken, and never come back. We never know where they'll take them. Then new girls join the group. I know they were 'bout to take me. I ain't stupid. I was one of the oldest girls there."

Dempsey's heart dropped into his stomach as he asked, "How old are most of the girls there?"

Isabel's eyes watered for just a second, then she blinked rapidly and set her jaw. "Thirteen, fourteen, sometimes younger. I was twelve myself when I first started…"

"Do you all have the same tattoo on your lower back?"

"H-how did you know that?" the girl asked, eyes wide.

"Wild guess," Dempsey said, unable to look into her eyes all of a sudden. His voice dropped down to a whisper. "Not exactly a tattoo, is it?"

Isabel laughed. It was a sad, sardonic sound that contained more pain than humor. "They brand us like cattle," she hissed, "the same way they do it to cattle."

The horrid case he'd encountered in New York as a rookie detective swirled back into Dempsey's mind. He could still hear the FBI agents using those exact same words. _Branded like cattle_. He remembered how hard that case had been for everyone involved, how the NYPD had diverted most of its resources to solving it. And how, in a way, he had been glad to cede it to the feds, albeit reluctantly at the time.

"What does it mean?" he asked, realizing it was a long shot that she would even know.

"What do you think it means?" she spat angrily. "It means we're their property!"

"I meant the symbol itself. Have you seen it anywhere else?"

"It's all over the place, gringo," she answered darkly. "You just gotta learn to see it."

Dempsey nodded slowly as he mulled over the information. Ambiguous answers usually pissed him off, but something told him this time he ought to let it slide. He stuck his hand in his pocket and extracted the plain business card that they'd found on the late Jay 'the Barrel'. The card itself was ordinary as they come: black cursive font over a white background, yet it remained a puzzle. A group. A society. A nickname. The nickname of a society. The nickname of a clandestine society. A sect?

"Have you ever heard anybody mention 'the men behind the curtain'?

Isabel recoiled back into a tight ball, clutching the covers in a ridiculous attempt to protect herself. All color had suddenly drained from her face as she stared at Dempsey with wide eyes, her breathing coming in short, intermittent puffs.

"Where can I find these 'men'?" he asked her, ignoring the violent reaction he'd just caused on the girl. "I need to know."

"No…" she choked out, shaking her head. "No, no, no!"

Dempsey leaned forward on the chair, his features hard once again as he glared at the girl.

"Listen, kid, if you wanna get outta this whole mess alive, you better point me in the right direction," he said intensely. "Can I count on you to help me?"

Isabel regarded him dubiously for a second, and then nodded weakly.

* * *

When Harry walked through the front door, she noticed two things: the house was warmer than usual, and there was a pleasant wood-burning scent. Her evening with Freddy had been serene and uneventful as they both sat in her father's study talking about a myriad of things ranging from current affairs to politics, as long as they had nothing to do with the case at hand. That topic, she figured, had been already discussed _ad infinitum_ and there was no need to put her father through any more undue stress. So, after a light dinner and a brief nightcap, they'd spent the evening reading quietly in the privacy of the study. Although, if Harry were to be completely honest with herself, her mind had been more on her partner than on Orwell's _Animal Farm_.

On one hand, she was really looking forward to meeting him that night. On the other, she was more than a bit apprehensive. Those un-partner-like feelings she'd developed for him had snuck up on her over the last year, had gradually increased over the past few months and had completely overtaken her in the past few days. Now, the mere thought of him sent her heart aflutter and her mind reeling. In a way, she knew she'd always been attracted to him in one form or another, even during those first few months, at the peak of their mutual annoyance, there had always been something fascinating about Dempsey that inexplicably drew her to him. He was different from every man she'd ever met. It was refreshing to have somebody who could constantly keep her on her toes, who could dismiss her with a disparaging remark one moment, and put his life on the line to save hers the next…

But his charm came with a hefty price tag. He was, and Harry feared he'd always be, a womanizer. The disdain she had felt for his female conquests, she realized now, had probably more to do with jealousy than actual aggravation. And, yes, she _had_ been curious. Curious as to his reputation in bed, which was probably well founded judging by all the women who kept constantly calling him the morning after his nightly escapades. Not that he was in the habit of ever calling them back, which Harry found inexcusable and, given their current situation, a bit worrisome. And, while playing the 'couple' game was fun and exciting, and a refreshing change of pace after years of unrelenting sexual tension between them, Harry wasn't sure he would allow it to go beyond just that: a game. She'd be silly to expect anything more. This was _Dempsey_ after all, Casanova extraordinaire and king of the one night stands.

To be fair, Harry didn't doubt for a second that he might actually _care_ about her. He probably cared a great deal. They had been good friends for a while, their trust ran quite deep, and she wouldn't put her life in anybody else's hands. But to expect anything beyond that was preposterous. So she'd been putting on the brakes on her feelings, making sure her emotions didn't get the better of her, keeping things light. She was even banking on the fact that any sexual encounter with Dempsey would bludgeon through the intimacy barrier Robert had failed to bring down.

That track of thought sent a rush of heat through her veins as she quietly made her way to the sitting room and found Dempsey sprawled on her couch, breathing evenly and fast asleep. Harry smiled at the sight, trying not to feel too disappointed by the obvious change of plans. She carefully placed her coat and handbag on the oversized Ottoman matching the classic, gold-striped armchair trying not to make any noise.

A notoriously light sleeper, the faint rustling was enough to wake Dempsey up. He stirred, blinking a couple of times as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, and sat up sluggishly to make room for her on the couch.

"'Time iz it?" he asked, his voice still sounding groggy, his hair spiking up at weird angles.

"Almost midnight," she answered as she sat beside him.

"Damn! It feels much later!" Dempsey rubbed the bleariness out of his eyes and, through a yawn, he asked, "How's your dad?"

"Worried, confused, anxious… We didn't really talk much about the case, actually. But, I gave him a mild sedative after dinner. Freddy tends to overthink things, so he was bound to spend all night tossing and turning. Fortunately, by the time I left he was sleeping quite peacefully."

Dempsey placed his hand on her knee and gave it a light squeeze. "And you?"

"I'm okay," she replied hoping her smile was reassuring enough.

"You're a terrible liar, Makepeace," he said affectionately.

"I could be better," she corrected, "but I'll be okay."

"Fair 'nough," he smiled, leaning closer and bringing his hand up to her shoulder to trail a feather finger up her jaw.

Harry tried hard to act natural, and hoped he wouldn't notice how easily he'd just managed to make something melt inside her with that simple gesture.

"How's the girl?" she asked, unable to ignore the flock of frantic butterflies at the pit of her stomach. "Did you find out anything else?"

Dempsey curled his finger around a lock of her hair, and answered her question with a reverberating 'hmmhmm' that clearly meant 'yes'.

"Found out how much I miss you when you're not around."

Harry chuckled, tilting her head towards his hand, craving the soft touch. "I meant about the case," she clarified.

"Why don't we take a break from the case," Dempsey said, his knuckle now trailing down the path of her jugular. "I know a great way to clear our heads…" He leaned into her and planted a soft kiss on the side of her neck, his lips landing on the spot his knuckles had just left. "We can tackle things fresh tomorrow…" Another gossamer kiss below her left ear made her shiver and finally surrender.

She turned her head to meet his lips, a soft contact at first, but the moment her hand wandered up his back, past his neck and raked through his hair, the leash was released and their mouths opened hungrily to each other.

There was a brief break of contact, a desperate need for air that gave Dempsey the opportunity to roll back into a sitting position, lifting Harry onto his lap and allowing her legs to straddle him. They both gasped loudly, she in surprise, he in pain.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked when she saw him grimace.

"Fuckin' shoulder!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

His right hand rubbed the soreness away while he brought his breathing under control.

"See what happens when you fail to take care of yourself?" Harry berated. "Hold on, I'll go get something for the pain."

"No, no, no, no, no…" Dempsey pleaded, holding her in place. "Look, I'm fine!"

"Do you want to stop?" Harry hesitated.

"Don't even joke 'bout that," he hurried to say with a hint of panic in his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

"Babe, if you think the shoulder's in pain…" He flashed that crooked, irreverent grin she always found so beguiling.

There was no doubt about it. Harry could feel his burning need through the fabric of his jeans pressing urgently against her, tugging at her own desire every time he moved an inch. She leaned forward, her hands flat on his chest, and touched her lips to his once again. Dempsey's fingertips had trailed up her outer thighs, sliding around her buttocks and anchoring her tightly to him. A moment later his hips pumped upwards, striking a magical chord that made her breath catch and her eyes water. Heart pumping, she let out a shuddery sigh and curled her body forward, dipping her face in the crook of his neck, the faint scent of his aftershave a powerful aphrodisiac. Her tongue darted out to tease his earlobe, a mild shock to both of them. It drew a husky moan out of Dempsey who dug his fingers deeper into the fabric of her pants as he pressed her rear even closer, his need to feel her around him clearly overwhelming. She went for the earlobe again, this time using her teeth to softly nibble the tender spot and loving the sound of ecstasy that escaped his throat, his ragged breathing, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching the rhythm of her own arousal.

"Take off your clothes…" Dempsey said in a desperate whisper.

Harry's thundering heart skipped a beat, drumming to a completely different tune. Adrenaline began firing through her blood, igniting that old, familiar fear that petrified her down to her very soul. Memories began flooding her brain: her mother's vanity chair, the big oak tree that could be seen through the sheer net curtain, the smell of her mother's duvet, the searing pain that made it all fade away…

A whisper of dread skittered along the base of her skull, and she began to hyperventilate.

"Harry?"

The sound of Dempsey's voice brought her back to the present, and she found herself sitting on his lap, struggling to get air into her lungs.

"Babe, are you okay?"

"I can't do this!" she said, climbing off him, completely shaken. She sat next to him, hugging herself in a protective manner, as if to cover herself from shame. "I'm sorry… I… I just _can't_."

"Did I do something wrong?"

Harry shook her head and wiped a stray tear from her cheek, but she managed to keep it together otherwise. "It's too soon…" she said as a way of an excuse.

Dempsey let out a chuckle of frustration. "Too soon? _Jesus Christ!_ "

He dropped back on the couch and draped his arm over his eyes as he tried to get his breathing and arousal back under control. Guilt crept through Harry's mind like a cold, dark snake. She should've known better.

"I'm sorry," she said again, hoping the apology wouldn't sound as empty to him as it had to her.

"T's alright, princess," he slurred, the crook of his elbow still covering his eyes. It was obviously not 'all right', but she was at a loss for words and feared that whatever she might say could make things worse.

Harry got up and walked to the fireplace, knelt by the hearth and poked the dying fire back to life. She remained there, looking into the burning wood until her eyes began to water, whether from the heat or a deeper emotion, didn't really matter. She didn't realize Dempsey was standing right behind her until she heard his voice.

"Maybe I shoulda been a little more romantic, ha?" he said trying to inject some humor into his tone. But Harry didn't answer—she couldn't—so he continued, "Look, I had this whole evenin' planned out, but you came way later than I thought, n' then we started foolin' around an' I got carried away, and… I'm sorry, princess."

"You did nothing wrong, Dempsey," she assured him, unable to bear the thought of him believing it was somehow his fault.

"What is it, then?" he huffed, frustration creeping into his voice. "You think we're rushin' into this?"

Harry moved her head slowly from side to side, her eyes still on the lively flames. "No," she whispered. She heard Dempsey shift behind her, his breath coming out in one long, drawn out sigh.

"Y'know, sooner or later you'll have to open up to me," he said, his voice low. "I don't mean it as a pun. I just thought I'd earned your trust over the years but, hey! what da hell do I know!"

She stood up to face him, but was unable to make eye contact for longer than a second. "You have."

"Then, I don't get you, Makepeace! I'm flyin' blind here!" He was upset, his tone underlying his restrained anger. "I don't know what you want from me, babe. One minute you're on fire n' the next you turn into an iceberg, and I have no fucking idea where to stand most of the time!" He raked a hand through his hair, frustration marking his every move. "I love you, damn it! I don't know when the hell it happened, but there it is! I ain't afraid to say it!"

He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her reaction. Her heart twisted, but she fought the urge to draw away. "I just need some time," she said, forcing the words over her tongue and ignoring the warning bells going off in her head.

Dempsey's shoulders sagged, and he lowered his head as if defeated.

"Fine," he finally said, his voice darker than she'd ever heard. "See you tomorrow."

He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door without bothering to put it on first, or sparing a glance in her direction.

Harry stood by the fire for a long time, the unbearable tightening inside her chest had slowly given way to numbness, and now she felt nothing but emptiness. She had wanted so much to push through that barrier, was convinced she'd be able to.

She had been wrong.

 **[TBC…]**


	11. Tin Man to My Scarecrow

Hi guys! Here is today's installment. Sorry it is a bit late, I'm on a trip visiting family and my schedule is all out of whack. I still hope you enjoy the chapter. Thank you always for your kind words and thank you, Ostrich, for your evil eye.

Happy (belated) Thursday (in some time zones)! ;-)

* * *

Tin Man to My Scarecrow

DC Reginald McPhearson sat at the only Irish Pub in Soho that served breakfast before six o'clock in the morning. It had been a long and boring night shift. The hood had been quiet for the most part, save for a handful of bar fights and the occasional weed exchange, the place had seen less action than his grandmother's bedroom. On loan from New York, McPhearson had worked in London's Narcotics Department for almost three years now and, like Dempsey, he'd found his way in a place where, despite being different in culture and methods, he had earned the respect of those around him.

He half leaned, half sat on a stool at the bar, sipping a coffee as black as his own skin, and wondered what Dempsey could possibly want to discuss at such early hour. He figured that, as long as he brought that gorgeous, blonde-ass partner of his, the morning wouldn't turn out to be so bad after all. His joy sank, however, the moment he spotted his compatriot walking into the pub grim-looking and partnerless.

"S'up, homey!" he greeted, placing the mug on the counter and shaking Dempsey's hand in a Harlem _Bro_ fashion. "Where's the lovely DS Makepeace this mornin'? She's a serum for tired eyes, that one."

"I'm 'fraid you're just gonna have to rely on good ole fashion joe for that, Reggie," Dempsey said motioning to the bleach-blond girl behind the counter and ordering one for himself.

"So what can I do ya for, man? It's not every day SI10 comes to us 'bottom-feeders' scramblin' for information. I'm not gonna lie to ya. It's a refreshin' change of pace."

"Hey, who's scramblin'?" Dempsey asked through a lopsided grin. "I'm just curious 'bout a guy that used to deal in one of your hoods."

"Used to?"

"Yeah, he kicked yesterday. Left a nice imprint on the front grill of a city bus."

"Oh, shit, you're talkin' 'bout ' _the Barrel'_?" McPhearson smirked, his eyebrows lifting way up on his forehead. "What does SI10 want with that scumbag?"

"Whisper is he might've been involved in an underage prostitution ring," Dempsey said quietly as he leaned over the counter. The girl behind the bar approached them with a steaming cup of coffee that she carefully placed in front of him with a husky sounding 'here you go, love' and a provocative wink, which Dempsey kindly acknowledged with a half-hearted grin before turning his attention back to the other cop. "Foreign girls," he continued, his mind focused squarely on the case, "mostly from Asia and Latin America."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't put it past him," McPhearson snarled. "The bastard had a bitch-load of nasty habits, was into all sorts of weird shit, y'know…"

"Like what?"

The black man smiled and a mischievous slash of white appeared on his face. "We busted into his place once, caught him buck naked, tied up to the bedposts with a leather balaclava lookin' thing over his head gettin' his dick sucked by this other dude dressed as a woman. I'm tellin' you man! Some weird-ass shit!"

"What did you guys bust him for?"

"Possession with intent to distribute. Coke, mostly. The really cheap and dangerous kind. Heavily mixed an' adulterated. Motherfucker got himself a good attorney and was out on the streets in less than a month."

Dempsey fastened his gaze on the mug before him and remained deep in thought for a few moments. McPhearson pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and offered him one, which he declined with a slight shake of his head. Instead, he took a long swig of strong, black coffee and then produced a Polaroid out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Placing it on the counter in front of McPhearson, he asked, "Have you ever seen this before?"

The black man's eyes narrowed, his brows creased. "Sure. It's the pyramid from the one dollar bill."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but have you ever seen a _tattoo_ like this one before? Or this symbol anywhere else for that matter. Here in London, I mean."

"Well, now that you mention it…" McPhearson rubbed his forehead trying to pin-point the place where he'd seen it. He hadn't paid much attention at the time, dismissing it as one of the many oddities crowding the bohemian lifestyle of that particular neighborhood. One could find strangeness staring back at every turn so, eventually, he just stopped taking mental inventory. But this… He'd seen the symbol recently. If he could only remember _where_. "Wait a minute," he snapped his fingers, his memory clicking. "Oz!"

"Oz? What the hell's that?"

"A fancy club on the upper side of the tracks," McPearson said pointing his chin in the direction of the door. "Raided the place last month. Didn't find squat. Pissed me off, 'cause I was sure we were gonna nail someone good. Someone must've tipped them off, and if I find who it was, they're gonna be wearin' their tongue as a necklace!"

"Did you ever see 'the Barrel' there?"

McPhearson let out a heartfelt laugh straight from the belly, his voice as dark and rich as the coffee they served in the pub. "There ain't no way a skank like him woulda went in there! First, he woulda stuck out like a sore thumb…"

"And second?"

"Well, it's the kinda club _certain_ men like to frequent," he uttered conspiratorially. "The type o'place where you better watch your rear, if you get my drift."

Dempsey caught on the innuendo right away. "It's a gay bar," he shrugged.

"Yeah, well, it's a fancy-schmancy place for married, middle class men who are way too deep inside the closet for their families to suspect they're actually over the bridge to Pimpleton. They usually go there to get their ya-yas out. And when I say ya-yas, I mean—"

"I know what you mean," Dempsey winced, lifting his hand to stop him from finishing that thought.

"Anyways, there's a hallway behind the dance floor with a door at the end, and right above it…"

"You saw this," Dempsey confirmed, pointing at the picture.

"The exact same symbol."

Dempsey ran a hand up his jaw, deep in thought for a moment. "It's a stretch."

"The Seven Mile Bridge is a stretch. What you guys are fishin' for…" McPhearson sighed, and narrowing his eyes with a mixture of curiosity and confusion, he ventured to ask, "What _exactly_ are you guys lookin ' for anyways?"

"Not sure yet." Dempsey inserted the Polaroid back in his pocket before downing the rest of the coffee in one long swig. He took a five pound bill and dropped it on the counter, way overpaying for the two coffees and deeming the leftover money as the tip. "Thanks, McPhearson," he said sliding off the stool.

"Give my regards to that gorgeous partner o' yours!" McPhearson grinned turning to Dempsey who was already half way out the door. With a healthy dose of envy, he added, "You lucky son-of-a-bitch!"

"That's my Indian name," Dempsey winked before sliding on his Ray Bans.

* * *

Harry sat at the corner table in the SI10 canteen. It was the same table she and Dempsey often used for a quick bite to eat, or to go over files when they came down for a much needed cup of coffee in the middle of an interminable afternoon, or for a change of pace when the office upstairs became unbearably constricting. That afternoon the place was crowded. Hummed conversations could be heard all around her, along with the faint clattering of silverware filling the room and, every so often, a bark of laughter over the rumbling voices.

She had spent the entire morning with Freddy and Mr. Stein, the family solicitor, going over every tedious detail of the case. After a couple of hours of useless hypotheticals and futile speculation, it had been Mr. Stein's suggestion that Freddy hired a criminal barrister, and had offered the names of a few prominent ones, having omitted Robert's name, no doubt, out of respect for Harry. He had also advised Freddy not to discuss the case with anybody, so when Tiberius North showed up at their door just a few minutes before Mr. Stein's departure, she had put on a casual façade, and sat with him in the breakfast nook while he lamented what he'd called Charles Shaw's 'sudden and unfortunate passing'.

Taking advantage of the moment, Harry had informally asked him some questions about his conversations with Charles leading up to the night of his death, but every single question had led to a dead end. His distress had been obvious enough, though. Plus, unable and unwilling to discuss the allegations against her father, Harry's investigative resources had been sorely limited. Still, she managed to find out Mr. North hadn't left for France until the morning after the murder and that he'd had a visit from Charles at his London loft a few hours before the murder. Other than that, there was nothing obvious connecting Tiberius North to the hotel suite, the Mexican girl or the incident itself.

Now, a few minutes past noon, Harry found herself pondering on all the information while she waited for Dempsey, who had agreed to meet her at the canteen to go over his earlier meeting with McPhearson. Like always, he was running late which, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have been a cause for concern, but after the way he left her house the night before, she couldn't help but feel a bit anxious. Harry _knew_ she owed him an explanation. It was only fair. But, having never really been one to pour her heart out when it came to her fears and feelings, the task of sharing that part of her past with him seemed gargantuan. How could she even broach the subject, when it had been buried in a deep, dark corner of her soul for so many years? One thing was clear: she wouldn't be able to break free from her cage until she came clean as to what was causing her to freeze every time things got a bit steamy between them. She didn't want those intimate moments to be forced and fake like they'd been with Robert. As much as she hated to admit it, she was as much to blame for his infidelity as Robert himself. She was the one who had practically pushed him into another woman's bed by failing him so miserably in hers. And, if someone as chaste as her husband, someone who'd always walked the straight and narrow, had gone astray, how long would it take Dempsey, whose track record would put Giacomo Casanova to shame, to do same?

So engrossed was she in her musings, she was mildly startled when Dempsey sat across from her with a cordial 'good mornin'', which she wasn't quite sure how to interpret. Harry tried to read his face, his body language, but he wasn't giving anything away. His tone had been kind, but he hadn't used any of his usual terms of endearment. Also, he hadn't sat beside her, choosing to sit across from her instead. Perhaps she was making a big deal out of a few minor observances.

 _You are being ridiculous, Harry!_ she berated herself. _If you keep this up you'll drive yourself mad!_

"Have you ordered yet?" Dempsey asked, sounding completely normal.

"I was waiting for you," she answered, hands clasped around her glass of water. "I wasn't sure if you wanted the ham and cheese or the roast beef."

Dempsey settled for the roast beef sandwich, one of the two items he always chose from the limited menu selections at the canteen, given he wasn't really a big fan of shepherd's or steak and kidney pies. Not overly hungry herself, Harry just ordered a side salad, which didn't prompt the usual reproach from Dempsey who often assured her that he'd seen birds eat more than she did. Refusing to read too much into it, she told him about the conversation she'd had with Tiberius North that morning, and her frustration after the fruitless meeting with the solicitor. He listened to her tirade without saying much, mostly nodding and agreeing with a statement here and there.

The arrival of their food marked the end of her rant, and it gave them something else to focus on.

"What about you," she said, trying to sound casual despite her building apprehension.

"Well," Dempsey answered through a mouthful, "it seems like 'the Barrel' might've been way over his head. I doubt he was much more than a lowlife dealer after all. But McPhearson did give me the name of a Club uptown. It might be a stretch, but…" he shrugged, taking another huge bite of his sandwich.

Harry was just picking at her salad with a fork. "What's so special about that club?"

"Besides it being a gay club?"

"It's a _gay_ club?" Harry raised a poignant eyebrow, not seeing the connection at all.

"Yeah, besides that," Dempsey continued, "remember our star witness' tattoo? There's a symbol just like that one somewhere backstage."

She tore her eyes from the salad to look at him, her expression blank. "Anything else?"

"It's worth a shot," he said. Then, pointing a chip at her, he added, "I'm tellin' ya. I got a gut feelin' this is worth lookin' into."

"Dempsey…" Harry exhaled, closing her eyes in a show of mild disappointment.

"I know it's a stretch, but think 'bout it. Would Shaw have been caught _dead_ whore shoppin' late at night in the middle of Soho? No irony intended," he quickly said, raising his hand to clarify he hadn't said the pun in jest. "Or is it more plausible that there's another place, somewhere more… _respectable_ let's say, where all these upper-crust people go for a more, uhm, _discrete_ service."

Harry cocked her head as she considered the possibility which, put so bluntly, wasn't as farfetched as it had sounded just moments ago. "Maybe," she finally conceded. "I just don't see why he would've chosen a gay club to…" she winced, unable to finish the sentence. "It's all rather bizarre."

"C'mon!" he insisted. "The nose _knows_. I'm tellin' ya. There's a connection!"

Dempsey and his wild hunches, Harry thought chewing through her first bite. Once she had swallowed the dainty forkful, she asked, "What's the name of the club?"

"Oz," replied Dempsey before taking several long swigs of Coke, draining the huge glass by half.

Just as he said it, the wheels inside Harry's head began to turn and a critical puzzle piece fell into place.

"Oz? As in ' _The Wizard of Oz'_?" she asked.

"Er… I dunno! I guess, yeah. Why?"

"Haven't you ever seen the movie?" Harry asked him, waiting for it to click.

"Not really my kinda flick, sweetheart," he smirked. And, though he'd used one of his preferred pet names for her, it had sounded completely hollow.

Harry's heart sank a bit, but she barreled through. They might, after all, be onto something. "'Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain'," she quoted. "The wizard says those words to Dorothy when—"

"The 'men behind the curtain'!" Dempsey murmured to himself.

"There's your connection."

"We need to talk to the girl again," he said, drenching a chip in enough ketchup to soak it through. "Bet I find a way to jog her memory 'bout those 'men'."

"Okay, say she confirms that's the club in question where all these shady deals take place, then what? Surveillance?"

"No, no, no… that'll take way too long," he frowned, shaking his head. "If we're gonna get your old man outta this jam, we gotta act fast. I'm thinkin' an undercover job is our best bet. It'll give us at least _some_ control over the situation."

"You might be right," she agreed. Their options were limited, but he had a point. The only way to get some answers was finding a way to infiltrate that group—whoever those 'men behind the curtain' might be. Harry wasn't sure how Dempsey was planning to do that. It was clearly not the type of club someone could just sign up for, not when it came to exclusive members, anyway. But he could always pass for an ordinary patron. "Finding a cover for you is quite easy, but I doubt they'll let me into that type of all gentlemen club. I doubt they would even hire a woman as a member of their waiting staff."

Dempsey polished the rest of his sandwich in one huge bite. "When I suggested the undercover gig," he said with his mouth full once again, "I meant _I_ go undercover." He chewed the bulk of the meat and bread mixture and washed what was left with another big gulp of Coke, then added, "Besides, there ain't no way Spikings' gonna even consider you gettin' involved in this."

"There _are_ ways," she challenged, clearly disregarding protocol.

"Yes, but I ain't gonna help you throw away your career, and goin' through with what you have in mind'll buy you a one way ticket down to traffic duty."

"You have pulled stuff like this before!" she accused with a hint of bitterness.

"And the ticket would've been a one-way to New York, not to square one of my career!"

Harry leaned back on the chair and looked out the window forgetting all about her half eaten salad. "I suppose that's true," she said quietly.

"Look, I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do," he told her. Pushing the plate aside to rest his elbows on the table, he leaned forward to intensify his stare on her. "And, if everything goes accordin' to plan, we'll knock this one outta the park in no time. Trust me on this."

"I guess I don't have any choice, do I?" she said, folding her arms over her chest.

He regarded her for a long, hard moment. "The way I see it, you _always_ have a choice."

Harry knew he wasn't talking about the case. She hadn't imagined it, after all. He _had_ been distant and aloof. He was slowly slipping away and she was allowing it to happen. Why couldn't she confide in him? Why couldn't she just get the words out? Much as she tried to break free, her cage was way too constricting, and her resolve faltered once again. It wasn't the right time. It wasn't the right place. The words simply wouldn't come out...

"James," she said in hopes the use of his first name would ease her into what she needed to tell him. At least, by the looks of it, she had managed to grab his attention. It took her several endless moments and a mountain of resolve to speak. "Don't give up on me," she forced the words over her tongue, her eyes fixed on the plate of welted lettuce before her. "Don't give up on us yet, please..."

She found the courage to look up at him and, for the first time since he'd arrived, she noticed his eyes softening, his frown relaxing. The faintest curl of his lips brought a glimmer of relief to the tightness in her chest.

"I told you last night how I feel about ya, princess." This time, the term of endearment carried the weight of his feelings, adding fuel to her bubbling emotions. "I ain't goin' nowhere."

Harry found herself smiling through the welling tears she tried to blink back. This was ridiculous. The stupid case and everything relating to it was just getting to her, that's what it was, right?

"C'mon, Harry," Dempsey said, offering her a smile that made her insides melt. "You're gonna make me go there an' pull you into my arms. Quite frankly, I don't give a shit what people think, but accordin' to you SI10 premises are forbidden territory."

His attempt at humor made her chuckle through the lump in her throat and her heart filled a bit. He had turned out to be so different from what she had perceived him to be when they first met. The arrogant, conceited bastard who prided himself in making her life absolutely miserable had gradually become her rock, someone who had yet to let her down. The person she trusted most in the world.

 _If that's true, then what are you so afraid of?_

"I need to talk to you about something," she found the courage to say.

"Okay," he nodded, sensing the gravity of her statement. "Shoot!"

"Not here." Harry looked around the canteen, a bit overwhelmed by the lunch crowd. "Tonight, after dinner."

Dempsey regarded her pensively for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Should I put my hopes up, or is it best I leave my libido at the door?"

Harry blushed, her lips set in an undetermined smile. Unable to maintain eye contact, she lowered her gaze to the table.

"I ain't pressurin' you, babe," he said softly. "I just wanna know where I stand."

"I can't make you wait forever," she said quietly.

"Well, I was kinda hopin' you'd be turned on by my charms a little sooner than that," he chuckled, that bad boy grin she found so beguiling now firmly in place.

"Dempsey!" she scolded in hushed tones, her wide eyes darting past his shoulder in fear somebody heard him.

Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of crimson as she focused on his face. It wasn't like he had shouted it from the top of his lungs. In fact, he had spoken just as quietly as she had, but the direction the conversation was taking was making her very nervous. People could hear, and the last thing she wanted to do was fuel the already rampant gossip.

"Okay. Tonight, then," Dempsey nodded. "I'll bring some of that fancy red wine you like so much, Vega… Vega Sa…"

"Vega Sicilia," she offered. "And you don't have to go all out."

"Whatever gets you talkin', honey," he replied with a kind smile. "Got all the time in the world to listen. If there's somethin' troublin' you, I wanna know so I can fix it."

That was precisely the problem. He _couldn't_ fix it. Harry would've told him that much, but she simply offered him a forced a smile and hoped her resolve wouldn't completely fade away before they had a chance to talk. She could already feel it slipping as it was.

But, such was their dynamic—one all heart and the other all brains—and, somehow, it had worked out well for them thus far.

 **[TBC…]**


	12. Dressing the Part

It's time for another update. Thanks for your comments and feedback. As always, is greatly appreciated. And a big thanks to Ostrich for her continued support.

 _Anyhoo…_ Happy Thursday, guys!

* * *

Dressing the Part

Isabel had been going out of her mind for two days. There was no point in fighting it anymore, it was clear she wasn't going anywhere until… her hair grew a nasty shade of gray! God only knew how long they would be willing to keep her caged in that tiny apartment! Not that she thought the alternative was any better. In fact, the Brotherhood was probably looking for her right now. And, if they ever found her, she would be sent to the green room for the last time. Of that, she was certain. She only hoped the cops were competent enough to keep them from figuring out where she was. But even if they were to send her back to Mexico, the Brotherhood would still be able to find her. She was sure of it. Those people had long tentacles…

She'd been sitting at the small table for the past hour folding paper into little animals while the two cops watched some old flick on TV. In it, John Wayne helped a rancher and his family fight a rivaling neighbor who kept trying to steal their water. If only all her problems revolved around a well! She had rolled her eyes at how fake all the "Indians" looked on the screen. During the ten years she'd lived near a Navajo reservation, she had never come across an orangy skinned native with light hair and blue eyes.

She carefully placed the small paper frog next to the others and ripped another page from the rapidly thinning _Hello!_ magazine the youngest cop had handed her that morning. He was kind of cute, she thought, and couldn't hold back an amused grin at how shy he always seemed to act around her. He'd even become a little tongue tied when she'd asked him for his name.

 _Bill… William_ , he'd responded, unable to look her straight in the eyes. _But everybody calls me 'Fry'_.

Out of the parade of cops that had passed through the apartment since she'd arrived, he was by far the nicest. Not only had he brought her a pile of magazines for her to skim through, but had also rented a couple of chick flicks he 'thought she might like'.

"Those things are wicked!" Fry had given up on the lame movie to come sit beside her, and was now admiring the collection of animals she had assembled into two neatly constructed rows. "Where did you learn how to do that?"

"My grandfather taught me," she lied, her eyes focused on the task at hand.

"Is your family still in Mexico? Do you miss them?"

Isabel let out a faint chuckle at the young cop's innocence. It was kind of refreshing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry," he apologized.

She raised her eyes to look at him, a small smile curving her lips. "When'll your shift be up, ' _Stirfry_ '?"

"Not until tomorrow morning," he answered, a little too happy considering he'd been stuck with the nightshift. "If you want, later, we can watch _Flashdance_. I think you'll like it. It's about this girl who—"

There was a knock at the front door, three familiar taps that indicated it was safe to open, but that put Isabel's nerves on edge every time. Scott Holder turned his bulky frame around on the small couch and signaled Fry to go do the honors. With a sigh that sounded like resignation, the young cop stood up and dragged his feet into the small entrance hall.

Dempsey walked into the room moments later, followed by Makepeace. Isabel lifted her eyes from the magazine, hand frozen mid-rip, and had a bit of trouble swallowing past the uncomfortable lump in her throat. It was always a little scary when the gringo paid her a visit, and this time he'd brought his partner along. Not a good sign. They had either found out something that could get her into further trouble with the Brotherhood, or were there to try and get more information out of her. Either way, she was far from glad to see them.

"Okay, I'm gonna go straight to the point," Dempsey said pointedly.

He straddled a chair as he sat beside her, elbows propped on the backrest, while Makepeace half sat, half leaned against the backrest of the sofa. Fry and Holder knew better than to stay in the room while the questioning was ongoing, and both scurried into the kitchen from where the clanking of dishes could be heard moments later.

"A nightclub," Dempsey said, "' _Oz_ '. Spill."

Isabel's heartbeat instantly picked up speed.

 _Shit!_

They had found the key. All they had to do now was go through the door. There was no point in denying she knew something about that place. Somehow, he could see right through her.

"It's a gay club," she shrugged, failing to sound as casual as she'd hoped for. "So what, gringo? You think many men there would be interested in _me_?"

"Oh, I think some would," he replied, his low voice adding a hint of mystery to his assertion.

"I don't know what you mean," she mumbled hoping he wouldn't see past the lie. Her attention was fixed on a glossy magazine page she was now tearing over and over again without purpose.

"Cut the bullshit!" he growled. "The men behind the curtain. Who are they?"

Isabel shook her head slowly, reluctantly. She could almost feel the blood draining from her face as she scrambled to come up with an answer that might divert the cop's attention elsewhere.

"I don't got all day, kid!" Dempsey's tone was becoming darker by the second, his patience clearly on reserve. "You either tell me what the hell goes on in that place, or I'll drag you there myself!"

Harry gave him a stern look and turned to the girl, pushing away from the couch to go sit next to her. "We really need your help, Isabel," she said gently in her perfect British accent. "We are on your side, but we can only protect you if you open up to us. I know you're scared. I can only imagine what you have been through."

The softness of her voice, the words themselves, made Isabel's rebellious front waver. Fear still wielded tremendous power over her, but a small part of her mind kept urging her to trust them. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out at first. Clearing her throat, she managed to speak with a small voice. "What do you wanna know about it?"

There was an almost imperceptible exchange between the two cops, a silent conversation that most people would've missed.

"A name, a person, anybody that might lead us to the murder of the man in the hotel room," Harry said. And, this time, it was the kindness in her eyes that lured Isabel further into the light.

"I don't know any names," she replied, her focus split between Dempsey and Makepeace. "But there was a guy… He used to be the one who'd take us to Jay. We called him 'the Reaper' 'cause, sometimes, he'd pick one of the older girls and take her away. He'd come by once or twice a month, take a girl, then leave. We knew… we knew we'd never see those girls again."

"How old were these girls?" Harry asked in a whisper. "The ones who this man took away."

"Not sure, he went by their looks," Isabel shrugged. "If a girl couldn't pass as a teen, he'd take her… I don't know where. The only ones that stayed a little longer looked more like you."

"Like me?"

"Yeah, blondies from the East. They say they're harder to smuggle into Europe."

"And the rest?"

"The rest of us came on a boat that stopped along the way pickin' up girls…"

"Along the way from where?" Dempsey asked, his tone and expression void of hostility and replaced by something akin to concern and mixed with a hefty dash of curiosity.

Isabel's eyes traveled to the harsh American cop and, for the first time, she saw him in a different light. Not so much a threat, but an ally.

"I don't really know. The boat made a few stops after leavin' Mexico. At one point it picked up some black girls, then a few gypsies somewhere else. Most of them were really…" she swallowed dryly a couple of times. "Some were really young, cryin' for their mommies every damn night." She tried to sound tough, but the memory was ripping her heart to shreds.

"Did you all stay together after you arrived?" Harry inquired.

Isabel nodded slowly, set her jaw and tried to ignore the sudden burning behind her eyelids.

"Where did they take ya?"

Once again, the kindness in the gringo's voice disconcerted her, tore at her defenses to the point she almost wished he'd turned back into the ruthless asshole she had believed him to be at first. At least, that way, she'd know how to interact with him. This… _paternal_ crap was just throwing her off balance.

"To the _Silver House_ ," she finally said. "It's way out there in the middle o' nowhere."

"Is that where Jay kept you?" Harry asked.

"Jay?" she sounded shocked at first, then burst out into soft laughter. "They would've never let that piece of shit into the grounds. No, he was just… a _London contact_ is what they called him."

"You keep sayin' 'they'," Dempsey frowned. "Who's ' _they_ '?"

Isabel shifted on the chair, uncomfortable with the question. "The people that took care o' us. The servants."

"Servants?"

"To the Brotherhood." She spoke the words reluctantly, feeling as if she'd just smashed the final nail on her coffin.

"Is the…" Dempsey clicked his fingers trying to remember, "what was it you called him…?"

"The Reaper," Harry offered, knowing what he was getting at.

"Yeah, thanks. Is he a member of this… _Brotherhood_?"

"I don't know," another shrug, "probably."

"What does he look like?"

Isabel sighed, her eyebrows drawing together as she tried to form a mental picture. "Tall, thin, kinda light brown, almost reddish hair. Very pale…"

"Eyes?" Dempsey asked, obviously making a mental note of the man's appearance.

" _Cold_ ," she said in a frightened whisper. "An' I don't mean cold like when you get pissed, gringo. I mean, this guy's eyes are, I dunno… _evil_."

Dempsey studied her quietly for a moment. "What's his connection to 'Oz'?"

"Men go there looking for…" A familiar sinking feeling got a hold of her, tightened around her stomach, and she felt suddenly nauseous. "They go there looking for something different."

It was Harry who spoke this time, voicing the obvious question. "You mean, _gay_ men, right?"

"No, not them," Isabel shook her head. "Some go there to hook up with men, yeah, but others…" she swallowed hard once again, her throat so dry it felt like she'd recently downed a bottle of sand. She had decided to trust the two cops, and there was no turning back now, so she just shoved her fears aside and barged forward, "…others go there lookin' for the men behind the curtain."

"Who are these men?" Dempsey pressed. "Was it those men who killed Charles Shaw?"

But Isabel had already shut down. She just sat still, eyes focused on the row of paper animals, yet unseeing.

"Isabel, listen to me! Did one of these 'men behind the curtain' murder Charles Shaw!"

"I don't know nothin' else, I swear!" Isabel whimpered, hugging herself. "I don't know nothin' else!"

A lone tear rolled down her cheek and she used the back of her hand to wipe it away. Harry went to sit beside her and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. Isabel's first reaction was to pull away, surprised by the gesture, but Harry's kind smile put her at ease, and she finally gave up all resistance to break down in the first comforting arms she'd been offered in years.

"I think it's enough for today, Lieutenant," she heard the lady cop say, her voice soft yet stern.

Dempsey didn't argue. They may not have the clearest of pictures as to what went on in that club, but at least they had what they came for: a lead. And that was enough to send them in the right direction.

* * *

Dressing up for the part wasn't as tedious and awkward as Dempsey had expected it to be. In fact, he'd been kind of curious as to what his notoriously reserved partner would come up with as far as an ensemble which, to his surprise, had not only come with advice on his physical appearance, but with bonus tips on expressions and mannerisms that had partly amused him, but mostly allowed for the latent tension that had been building ever since the plan's inception to bubble to the surface.

There was a lot at stake, and they both knew it.

Ultimately, they had agreed to keep the flamboyance to a minimum and play it out as a customer looking for the average casual 'hook up' without any strings attached. Not that he'd ever frequented gay clubs, so even that role was up to interpretation. Sure, he'd been a part of several drug raids involving all types of clubs during his uniformed years back in New York, and had seen his share of strange situations both in gay and straight clubs.

But, undercover jobs were different. One had to get deep into the role, crawl into the skin of a made up person with a particular set of traits, and embrace all virtues and flaws alike. It had to be convincing enough to make people _believe_ the lie. Sometimes he doubted the best of actors could pull it off. Then again, their lives never depended on it.

He and Harry had spent more than two hours in his apartment going over his cover, coming up with a believable background, something plausible enough to land him in such a club as a newcomer without raising any red flags. At first, they toyed with the idea of Dempsey playing the part of a successful business man from America looking for company, but that could lead to a hairy situation from which he would find it hard to extricate himself if things got complicated, so they finally settled for the classic 'married man in the closet looking for some 'eye-candy'', which would account for some initial hesitation and would give him an easy way out if things were to get a little out of hand.

"I think you should wear this one with the pinstriped tie," Harry suggested, holding up the blue button-up shirt she had just pulled out of his closet.

"You wanna dress me up as a gay accountant?" Dempsey grinned, already wearing the beige slacks she had chosen earlier.

"I'm just trying to soften your look up a bit," she said, walking around the bed and bringing the hanger up to his neck to check how the shirt would look with the trousers. "Besides, it was _you_ who asked for my help in choosing the right clothes. I'd be very happy to wait for you in the lounge and see what you come up with. It wouldn't be the first time you dress the part. I seem to recall you doing a good enough job last time on your own."

"Yeah, well, I ain't goin' rug shoppin' this time," he said, taking the hanger from her and slipping into the shirt with a sigh. "I need to play this subtle, wouldn't want my cover blown, not to mention my _head_ , over the wrong style belt-buckle."

"Well, trust me," she said absently. "The shirt works. Your cover won't be blown, nor will any part of your body…"

Dempsey turned to her, eyes widening in mild shock and lips twisting into an amused smile.

" _Lady Makepeace_!" he gasped with feigned outrage.

It took her a second to realize her _faux pas_ , at which point her cheeks began burning an incandescent shade of crimson.

"That's not what I meant!" she stuttered, mortified as she watched Dempsey trying to bite back a chuckle. "I was referring to… oh, _shut up_!"

To her surprise, he let the whole innuendo slide and, instead, focused his attention on the methodical buttoning up of the shirt, a frown creasing his brow.

Harry regarded him through narrowed eyes for a moment. "You're nervous," she observed.

He let out a short, uneasy laugh and mumbled a half-hearted denial, tucking the shirt inside his trousers without further comment. After hanging the tie from his neck, he tilted his head, and admitted somewhat sheepishly, "Maybe a little. I like to know you got my back when we do these things, y'know... And I _really_ mean that this time."

His pun drew a small smile out of Harry. The feeling was mutual. It bothered her more than she cared to admit not being able to partake in this particular undercover assignment. She had been at her desk, tying loose ends, while Dempsey had ran the plan by Spikings earlier that afternoon. It had been a brief meeting just to give their boss heads up as to the potential lead on the case, and inform him about the chosen course of action. Spikings had signed off on it with a stern warning to Dempsey not to get trigger happy and turn the damn place into the OK Corral and, of course, provided that Harry stayed the hell away from that club and anything relating to the case. And, as it was often the case, he'd got an empty promise in return.

 _I hear ya, boss!_ Dempsey had flippantly said, stepping out of Spikings' office.

Harry reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt and began working the tie into a Windsor knot. "We can still go with surveillance," she suggested, her fingers tugging at the wide end until it reached the right length for the loop.

"That could take months," he replied, allowing her to fiddle with the garment at her leisure. "I honestly think, for your father's sake, this is the way to go."

They had talked about it _ad nauseam_. The point was to shift the focus of the investigation away from Freddy, and come up with sufficient evidence to provide just enough reasonable doubt so the prosecutor would have no other choice but to drop the charges. Under regular circumstances, they would have put in place a surveillance plan that might have taken several weeks to yield any results, if any at all. So, scratching that option, they had decided to go the undercover route.

"Come on!" Dempsey grinned, "it's not like we're dealin' with the Mob, here."

Harry inserted the wide end of the tie through the loop, pulling gently to tighten the knot, her distress too obvious to conceal. "That's just it," she said. "We don't really know _who_ we're really dealing with, do we? Or, what they might be capable of…"

"Hey, c'mon Harry, it's just a club," he shrugged. "It ranks really low on the list of dangerous undercover jobs. What's the worst that can happen, huh?"

"I just hate being left out, okay?" she blurted out. "Connection or not to this case, I'm still your partner!"

Dempsey flashed one of those sexy, bad-boy smiles that could make her weak at the knees and wake up the thousand butterflies that had recently taken residency in the pit of her stomach.

"What's the matter, babe?" he murmured with a flicker of naughtiness. "Afraid a dashin' gent might woo me away?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Dempsey," she teased, adjusting the length of the tie. "Besides, what makes you think men find you as irresistible as women do?"

He huffed out a laugh that could have been construed as bitter. " _Irresistible_ , huh? Funny thing to say coming from you," he half joked, but his eyes were dead serious and her heart took a dip. She gently pulled down on the tie, going on tiptoe to meet his lips half way in a soft, reassuring kiss. She allowed her mouth to linger over his, their warm breaths mingling through an unspoken promise.

"Tonight," she finally whispered. "My house…"

She let the words trail, insinuation enveloped in her suggestive tone.

"Don't go makin' promises you can't keep, princess," he said quietly.

He was looking at her through thick lashes, and Harry felt like she could've easily discarded all her troubles and fears at that very moment, throw all caution to the wind, and take their physical relationship all the way right there and then.

 _No. She couldn't trust her impulses. If she were to hit that roadblock one more time…_

For a moment she believed him to be resentful, but his crooked smile told a different story.

"I just don't want you to think that I'm playing hard to get or trying to build the moment up in any way," she told him, her focus now on the even navy stripes of the tie. "On the contrary, I…"

Dempsey's hand came to rest on her shoulder, then trailed down to her elbow. "What?" he prompted, a soft squeeze punctuating his request.

She lifted her chin to meet his eyes once again and forced herself to smile. "I need you to trust me."

The truth was she, herself, hoped beyond hope to be able to barge through the barriers that had ruined every single relationship she had dared to embark on: Paul, Julian… Robert. Some had hurt more than others. But enough was enough. She had come to the realization that losing Dempsey over these ancient qualms would be the highest price to pay yet. One she couldn't emotionally afford.

A feeling of warm tenderness washed over her as she watched Dempsey adjust the knot of the tie and give each sleeve a sharp tug, setting them wrist length. Fighting against the sudden prickling in her eyes, Harry focused on the austere patterns scattered throughout his duvet, grateful for the convenient distraction that his brief struggle with an untied wrist button yielded her.

"Okay, so how do I look," Dempsey finally asked, taking a step back and spreading his arms to the sides for her to make a better assessment.

Harry cocked her head and, after a fleeting scrutiny, she grinned, "Just like my accountant! Here," she said handing him the blue blazer she'd found in her father's Jag earlier. "Try this on."

As it was to be expected, the cut was way too narrow on Dempsey, whose shoulders were about twice as broad as Freddy's. He contorted a bit to push his left arm through the sleeve and grimaced at the sudden pain the movement caused.

"The shoulder?" Harry winced in sympathy. "Hold on, let me go get the—"

"No, I'm fine," he growled through clenched teeth. He clearly wasn't, but arguing with him was a complete waste of time. "I told you. I can handle the pain just fine!"

"How can you be so bloody stubborn?" she accused through a flare of anger. "Look at you! You're white as a sheet, just broke into a cold sweat, and…!"

"Said, I'm fine, okay?" he said with finality rendering her arguments irrelevant. His stern expression soon morphed into a much softer one, his tone filled with humor. "Just… pass me the gayest jacket you can find in the closet, would ya?"

 **[TBC…]**


	13. Judging a Book by Its Cover

Hi everyone! Thank you for the feedback. Your comments are greatly appreciated. As far as Reggie McPhearson, I'm glad it was so well received as a character, but I can't take full credit for him. He _did_ appear on the third season of the show ( _Mantrap_ ) as the narcotics cop that approaches Dempsey and Makepeace while they work undercover at the hot dog stand. ;-)

Once again, a heartfelt thanks to Ostrich for her sharp eye and continued support.

Happy Thursday!

* * *

Judging a Book by Its Cover

The club was alive and filled with upper class gents hoping to hook up on that chilly Thursday night. Some sat at the small tables scattered around the dance floor drinking elaborately prepared cocktails from fancy glasses as they watched people move to an easily identifiable Culture Club tune, some more flamboyant than others, but all using that ancient form of flirting called body language. The disco ball above them sparkled every time one of the corner spotlights shone on it, but it was the steady ultraviolet lighting that made every hint of white stand out, from a smile to a shoelace. A rhythm driven DJ, showcased inside a glass cabin to the left as if on display, kept bobbing his overly-enthusiastic head to the tune of the music, his focus squarely on the panel of knobs, buttons and switches before him.

Once the chameleon had changed its last karma, Boy George's peppy voice was replaced by a far mellower Tracy Chapman, at which point all single bodies gravitated towards a partner, swaying now to the music in tandem.

Dempsey half sat on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing his scotch on the rocks while he observed the entire club scene play out before him: the incessant dancing, the relentless flirting, the discrete make-out sessions on the sofas at the far end of the dimly lit room… He'd been there for about an hour, trying to spot someone who might fit the description of the 'slim man', as Isabel had described him, and realizing with no small amount of chagrin that half the club actually fit the bill. After all the hassles he and Harry had gone through to come up with the perfect cover, it was turning out to be a dud of a night.

He was about to strike a casual conversation with the bartender, when another man sat beside him with an easy smile and what looked like a Gin and Tonic in his hand. He looked slightly younger than Dempsey, his black hair combed just enough to look neat, but not overdone, and classic Indian features, with a straight Arian nose and huge, dark eyes that seemed to sparkle in the flashing lights of the club.

"I have never seen you around here before," the man half shouted to be heard over the music. "I think I would've noticed you."

Dempsey held back a smile. It appeared as the mechanics of flirting were the same regardless of sexual orientation. His first instinct was to turn the young man down with one of the classic lines in his repertoire, 'I'm waiting for someone' being the one at the tip of his tongue but, after a moment's consideration, he figured it wouldn't hurt engaging the kid in conversation and seeing what he could get out of him. Lips stretching into an easy smile, he leaned closer and spoke just as loudly. "I'm not from here."

The man looked instantly pleased. Two dark eyebrows shot skyward in what could be construed as guarded curiosity. "American?" His smile broadened and shone unnaturally white under the purple lights. Taking the reply as an invitation, he inched closer, extending his hand to Dempsey. "I'm Sanjay."

Shaking the other man's hand with affable congeniality, Dempsey found the stranger before him extremely likeable.

"Bond," he deadpanned. "James, Bond."

Sanjay let out a heartfelt laugh. "Okay, I get it," he nodded. "No real names, I can respect that. So, what brought you to jolly old England, _James_?"

"I'd tell ya," Dempsey replied downing the last of his scotch, then offered him a friendly wink, "but then I'd have to kill ya."

"Mystery man. Must be something important."

Dempsey regarded the other man carefully for a moment, and almost felt guilty toying with him. Judging by the way his hands kept nervously twirling the tall glass before him, and the hint of anxiousness every time he chuckled, it was clear Sanjay's interest was genuine. "I'm a broker," he said to make the kid feel a little bit more at ease. "From New York. I'm here on business. Boring stuff. I don't really like talking about it. How 'bout you, Sanjay? What do you do?"

"I recently graduated from Oxford with a degree in biology," he replied, more shyly than proudly, yet visibly excited. "I'm actually traveling to the United States in January. I was accepted into Duke University to pursue a master's degree in marine biology. My hope is to specialize in conservation and policy. Our oceans are being depleted at such a rapid rate, we're bound to drive more than 20 percent of all known marine species into extinction in less than fifty years."

"Sounds interesting," Dempsey lied trying to sound just that. He was pretty sure, however, he wasn't actually pulling it off. Calling the bartender's attention, he ordered his second scotch. Noticing Sanjay's nearly empty glass, he asked him, "What's your poison, kid?"

"Vodka and Tonic," he replied. Thanking Dempsey for the round, he felt comfortable enough to get closer to him so he could talk near his ear. He was perhaps a little too eager to learn more about the mysterious American. His voice trembled a bit when he said, "I'd have thought you'd rather go for a martini, Mr. Bond."

There was a light brush of hip against thigh. A subtle, yet unmistakable sign of flirtation that put Dempsey on alert and made him recoil on the inside. The kid was clearly about to cross a forbidden physical boundary, most likely before the arrival of their drinks, and there was no way in hell their encounter was going to get that far...

On the other hand, who knew when the opportunity to learn more about that place would present itself again? The only other option at that juncture would be asking the bartender a series of casual questions that would probably raise some undesirable eyebrows, compromising the operation before it had the chance to take off. Spotting the so called 'Reaper' had proved to be a waste of time so far, and they needed answers, _fast_. So, putting everything on the balance, Dempsey decided to push through his mental barriers, crawl back into the skin of his cover, and offer Sanjay what he hoped was a sincere smile.

"I like copper colored drinks better," he said, looking straight into the dark, lustful eyes of the other man, who instantly caught onto the innuendo. Now that Dempsey had his full attention, he leaned forward and asked, "Tell me, you come here a lot?"

"Every week. Getting a little tired of the same old crowd, quite frankly."

"What's wrong with the same old crowd?"

"Nothing, really. Most of them are here with someone, others come looking for something different, and others… well, others are just here to check out the scene out of morbid curiosity."

"How do you know I didn't come to check out the scene out of morbid curiosity?"

Sanjay smiled and an impossibly white slash of teeth framed his face for a second. He then placed his hand on Dempsey's knee, inching it up the inner thigh and leaning closer until they were practically cheek to cheek. "I guess I was willing to take my chances," he said, his breath brushing the sensitive skin of the earlobe. "Were my instincts wrong?"

 _Like a priest in a whorehouse, kid_ , Dempsey thought, contemplating how off target Sanjay's gaydar had been. Makepeace had really outdone herself with the outfit. In a way, he was glad she hadn't been a part of this particular undercover job. The situation was awkward enough without her lurking in the background and, besides, she had enjoyed dressing him up a little too much as it was.

"No," he answered easily. "I just didn't really know what to expect."

Sanjay pulled back to look at Dempsey, his eyes wide with astonishment. "It's your first time in a place like this, isn't it?"

 _Bull's-eye!_

"Surprised?"

"A bit, yes!" A warm chuckle. "You just look so…"

"Gay?" Dempsey blurted, a little alarmed, yet hiding it well at the very last second.

"Confident," Sanjay offered instead. "Most first timers look far more nervous."

"Really? Are there a lot of first timers here tonight?"

"There's a group over there," the young man said with a slight point of his chin, "but they fall under the 'morbid curiosity' category."

"How d'you know?"

"Oh, you just know…"

"What 'bout that guy over there?" Dempsey asked, signaling an older gentleman who'd been sitting at the bar nursing his cocktail for quite some time.

"Him?" Sanjay smiled to the bartender and gave him an appreciative nod when their drinks arrived. Then, sending a quick glance to the man in question, he continued, "He comes here sometimes, sits at the bar, never really mingles. He's one of those people, you know?"

"No, I don't."

The young man turned to Dempsey, eyes narrowed. His keen expression morphed into one of mild disappointment. "Is yours morbid curiosity after all, _Mr. Bond_?" he asked, his smile wavering.

Dempsey realized he might have been slipping in his character's portrayal—too much cop, not enough patron. He immediately turned on the charm that had captivated way too many women to count, hoping it would work its magic on men as well.

"Call me James," he encouraged with a disarming smile.

His tone had been firm, almost commanding, sparking a glint of desire in the other man's eyes. Dempsey took a sip of scotch, his eyes never leaving Sanjay's, penetrating in such a way it made the young man's dark skin flush. It almost felt wrong playing with him in such a way. Not that the tactic wasn't an old trick of the trade, especially when trying to get information off a subject. The only difference was that, with a woman, he had no qualms playing the game all the way.

The thought of Harry brought Dempsey's musings to a screeching halt. Maybe now the game _wasn't_ that different after all. Such reflection gave him pause. What if Sanjay had been a woman? How far would he have been willing to take the game? The rules had obviously changed, the ante upped.

"A penny for your thoughts," Sanjay said, giving him a friendly nudge.

Dempsey twirled his drink, causing the ice cubes to dance and clink. He took a sip from his glass, tasted the smokey flavor of Scotch on his tongue, and offered him a half grin. "I was thinkin' 'bout the wife."

Mild shock registered on the other man's face. "You are…?"

"Separated," Dempsey explained. "Guess she saw the obvious 'fore I ever did."

"Hey, you're not alone," Sanjay gave him a reassuring shrug. "Half the men here are on the same boat."

"Yeah, the walrus at the end of the bar I bet, right?"

"Nah, not him. I'm not sure what his deal is, but I've never seen him show much interest in the meat market."

While Sanjay tried to give an explanation regarding the tubby man, they saw a second man approach him. He was tall and lanky, with sandy copper hair, a straight nose and angular cheekbones. His striking whitish skin appeared even paler under the club lights, making him look as gaunt as a modern day vampire. His deep set eyes scanned the crowded room, panned over the bar stopping on Dempsey and Sanjay for a fraction of a second before turning his attention to the bartender. Having placed his order, he took out a pack of smokes from the side pocket of his navy blazer and pointed it at the fat man, a slim cigarette sticking out from the packet in silent offering. The walrus took it, accepting a light from his companion and blowing out a bluish cloud that swirled around them for a couple of seconds before striking a conversation. Dempsey's brows creased as he carefully observed the interaction.

"It appears he got lucky after all," he said, although he smelled something awry.

"I don't think he's into the type of action you're thinking," Sanjay smirked.

"Dealer?" Dempsey guessed.

"Not really my cup of tea, but yes. You get a lot of that around here. Strange stuff too."

Yeah, strange was probably an understatement. There was something bigger than your average drug dealing cooking in that place, of that Dempsey was as sure as the British obsession over traffic and the weather. He kept an easy conversation with Sanjay, light flirting and the occasional brushing of hands or knees, never really crossing the feeble line into the inappropriate.

"Can I get you another one?" Sanjay asked, noticing Dempsey's empty glass. "Next round's on me."

"Woudja mind if I took a rain check on that? I gotta get back to the hotel. I'm expecting a very important phone call from New York," Dempsey apologized and, noticing the open discontent in the other man's face, he stammered, "Hey, why dontcha give me your number? I'll call ya."

Sanjay's face twisted into a bitter smile. "We both know you won't, James."

So, the mechanics of dating were pretty much the same regardless of sexual orientation, Dempsey concluded. He felt a tug of guilt nagging at his mind. "I just don't think I'm ready for this yet," he tried to explain with a sudden need to end the pretense.

In the past, the women he'd wooed had always got what they'd bargained for, even those who didn't quite get the concept of a one night stand, grudgingly understood the reasons for the lackluster response once it was over. But this… He couldn't really blame Sanjay for being resentful as he watched him head towards the exit.

After paying for the drinks and leaving a hefty tip, Dempsey made his way around the club with a dire need to get the hell out of there. He had almost reached the front door when he heard a ruckus in a secluded area near the restrooms, away from the hustle and bustle of the club, where the group of 'morbidly curious' was crowding around someone. The beat of the music pounded now faintly in the background as they laughed and cussed at their victim, who just cowered against the back wall, head bowed and seemingly terrified.

It took Dempsey a couple of seconds to recognize the person being corralled, and an additional second for his initial indignation to turn into anger.

 _It was Sanjay._

"Hey!" he bellowed over the group of drunken pranksters.

Five angry faces turned to look in his direction, their young target forgotten for the time being. Dempsey approached them, not really willing to engage into any kind of argument as he shouldered his way past the group to get to a very shaken Sanjay, who regarded him with mild shock and an abundance of gratitude.

"Came to your boyfriend's rescue, did you?" A stocky one chanted, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him back.

Dempsey yanked his arm free of his grasp, turning around with a dangerous glare. "Touch me again, and you'll be wearin' your arms for a necklace, pal!"

A gigantic thug with shoulders as wide as a wardrobe pushed his mate aside and towered over Dempsey. Face twisted into a snarl, he delivered a right hook punch into his sternum that made him double over and fall to his knees gasping for air. A choir of laughter erupted all around him. It was followed by a string of obscene cheers that were making his blood boil. It was times like this when he sorely regretted not packing heat, not that he could've risked blowing his cover by being caught with a Magnum under his armpit, but it would have given him a greater sense of security. Jaw clenched, he used the element of surprise to sweep his leg across the giant's ankles, making him fall to the ground like an injured bear.

Before any of the others could react, he connected his fist against the closest face in its path, feeling the sting of a broken nose on his knuckles. Another one down, Dempsey saw the big man back on his feet, bursting with rage, charging towards him, and managed to sidestep him in a fraction of a second, but was unable to stop the punch to his left cheekbone from one of the other thugs. He did, however, block a second blow with his left arm, although the pain that exploded in his shoulder at that moment was such he literally saw an entire constellation of stars behind his eyelids.

Inevitably out of commission, he would have been an easy target from that point on, had it not been for the arrival of two extremely big, extremely menacing bouncers, who almost broke Dempsey's attacker's arm in one swooping motion and managed to subdue the rest of the group just by sheer intimidation.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The modern-day vampire was now standing by the entrance of the club, eyes harsh as he appraised the cluster of hooligans. A shrug by one of the bouncers and something mumbled in such hushed tone only he was able to hear the answer to his question.

"Get them the hell out of here!" he ordered with a jerk of his head. He then offered Dempsey a helping hand to his feet.

And, the moment Dempsey's eyes landed on the ring he was wearing, they lit up instantly. The evening hadn't been a complete waste after all. Engraved on the round, silver surface, was a crescent moon.

 _Bingo!_

It was at that moment when Dempsey realized he had just come face to face with _the Reaper_.

Not even five minutes later, he was happy to find himself outside of the club breathing London's cold and humid September air. His shoulder burned almost as much as his pride, but at least his cover hadn't been blown. Hands stuffed inside the pockets of his trousers, he began walking leisurely down the street, deep in thought, when he heard someone calling his name. He turned around to see Sanjay practically jogging in his direction.

"I didn't get to thank you for what you did for me back there," he said, slightly out of breath.

"Hey, no problem! I was just gettin' started," Dempsey said through a crooked smile. "I had them just where I wanted when we got interrupted."

Sanjay bowed his head and let out a soft chuckle. He then looked up, his hand reaching up to Dempsey's face, where his thumb brushed over the noticeable red mark on his left cheekbone. "You ought to put some ice on that."

"I will, thanks," was the quiet reply.

Before anything else could be said, Sanjay closed the distance in one swift move, planting a kiss on Dempsey's mouth that lingered for a bizarre moment of silence. Hot anger flaring from deep within, Dempsey shoved the other man away from him a little too harshly.

"The fuck you think you're doin'?"

Shame and embarrassment played over Sanjay's features. "I'm sorry… I thought…"

The initial rage began to transform into something closer to guilt, and Dempsey sighed, allowing the rational part of his brain to take charge and suppress his wounded alpha male ego. After all, he had nobody else to blame but himself for allowing the situation to get that far. It had been utterly unfair to the other man, no matter how he tried to rationalize it.

"Look, I'm just not ready for this kinda relationship yet, okay?"

He tried to sound apologetic, although he wasn't entirely sure he'd succeeded.

"Don't worry, I get it," Sanjay hissed with bitter resentment. "Sorry to have bothered you."

With that, he turned around and walked away with a firm stride never looking back. Dempsey felt the need to call him, to say something, to apologize or offer him an explanation, but the words refused to leave his mouth. In the end, it was probably better to let things be.

He walked the rest of the way to his car with a heavy heart, feeling that stayed with him throughout the entire drive to Harry's place. He used the spare key she had given him to enter, surprised to find the lights off and silence all around. Walking through the house switching lights as he went along, he pondered for a moment whether they had agreed to meet at his place.

No, she had explicitly wanted to meet in Chelsea given the proximity to Freddy's house. She had also been adamant about wanting to talk to him about something important.

 _So where the hell was she?_

"Harry?" he called, not really expecting an answer.

He entered the kitchen and sat at the small table, trying hard to ignore the nagging pain in his shoulder that was gradually becoming more intense. A brief glance at his watch made him wonder if Harry might have forgotten all about their 'conversation date', and had decided to spend the night at her father's.

Dempsey got up, his patience slipping, and walked over to the sitting room, where he had seen Harry's address book laying around some place. He found it right next to the phone, flipped through it, and found the number he was looking for under 'Freddy'—not 'dad' or 'father'. He lifted the entire base off the desk, cradling the mouthpiece between his neck and shoulder as he dialed, and pacing around the room, receiver in hand, once the familiar beeping told him the phone was ringing on the other end. It took several rings for an unfamiliar voice to answer and, for a moment, he thought he'd reached the wrong number.

A little puzzled, he asked, "Uhm, can I please speak to Lord Winfield?"

The hasty explanation offered with stammering gentility told him everything he needed to know. Without the courtesy of a reply or a second's hesitation, Dempsey hung up the phone and dashed out of the house, burning rubber as the Merc sped away from Harry's home.

 **[TBC…]**


	14. A Coward's Way Out

Thank you for all the feedback. You guys are very kind. Once again, a special thanks to **Ostrich** , for hanging in there through thick and thin.

Okay, so... Happy Thursday, I guess. ;-)

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A Coward's Way Out

The waiting was the worst part. Having to keep a semblance of composure wasn't a walk in the park either. Harry had been sitting in the waiting area of London Bridge's Hospital for almost two hours, waiting for an answer on her father's condition that seemed like it was never going to come forth. The image of Freddy swaying and then collapsing in the hallway of his loft on Eaton Square on the way to his bedroom had been forever imprinted in her mind. Fortunately, her uncle Duffy had been visiting at the time, and between him and Abbot they'd managed to keep her father semi-conscious while she'd rushed to call an ambulance.

Now, the three of them sat on those awful plastic chairs, a plastic cup of insipid tea in hand, surrounded by people with plastic expressions on their tired faces.

Incidentally, Lord Bishop was due to stop by the loft earlier in the day, but informed of the situation by Abbot, and given the unexpected circumstances, he'd gone straight to London Bridge's. Unable to offer a better source of comfort, he'd arrived with a book of poems by Robert Browning, claiming Freddy would probably need a healthy distraction if he were to stay more than a day in hospital. And, although he was probably the last person she'd expect from whom to draw comfort, Harry couldn't help but admit it had been a nice gesture on his part.

"Does Tiberius know what's happened?" he asked, sitting next to Harry.

She shook her head tiredly. "I don't think so," she answered. "We haven't had the chance to call anybody. I'd rather not say anything until we know for sure what caused him to collapse like that."

"It has been an awful week, hasn't it?" he sighed.

Harry's nerves were stretched to a breaking point. She was tired and didn't much feel like small talk, but her upbringing prevented her from showing her true feelings, so she offered Lord Bishop a quiet 'it has' hoping it would be the end of the conversation. The tightness in her chest intensified, bubbled up to her throat and caused an unwelcome prickling behind her eyelids, but she managed to hold it together by sheer will, refusing to show the older man a shred of emotion. She forced her mind to think of something other than the picture of Charles' dead body lying in a pool of blood, or her father's face of helplessness as they waited for the ambulance. Refusing to focus on the fact that the medical staff had spent an unordinary amount of time working on Freddy, and what it could possibly mean, she forced herself to concentrate instead on the posters plaguing the pale green walls of the hospital urging people to give blood, to be prepared for flu season, to beware of the risks of having unprotected sex…

"I never had the chance to tell you this, Harriet," Lord Bishop began after a long silence. "And, I know it might not have seemed the case at the time but…" the old judge ran a shaky hand over his jawline, finding whatever was on his mind obviously difficult to voice. "I never really blamed you for what happened to Paul."

Harry's body went suddenly tense. Of all things she had expected Lord Bishop to bring up at that very moment, the death of his son was not one of them. It wasn't one she particularly wanted to talk about either, but her sense of pride and justice made it impossible for her to hold her tongue.

"Yes, you did," she answered coldly.

"Perhaps I did at first," he conceded. "I'm well aware Paul was a troubled young man, but he was my only son. I suppose it was hard for me to accept my own flesh and blood would take the coward's way out."

The frown on Harry's forehead deepened, her earlier heartache had completely vanished and given way to anger. True and unadulterated _anger_. Yes, Paul Bishop had been quite the selfish bastard. He had shattered her life and decided to end it all, leaving a distraught father and a broken teenager to pick up the pieces of the mess he'd left behind. Both Lord Bishop and Harry knew why he had done it, and it was a secret they'd decided to keep buried for decades. Why the judge had decided to bring up this ghost from the past at that very moment, was beyond her.

"I hope you never have to go through the misery of finding your child hanging from a beam inside your own house," he said in a soft whisper.

The pain in those words cut Harry deep, making old wounds bleed once again. She couldn't dredge up Paul Bishop right now. Not with her father in the hospital, not after Charles' murder and, especially, not with her relationship with Dempsey hanging by a thread. She had to put an end to the conversation before all those ancient feelings of guilt and impotence dragged her back to that desolate place from where it took her years to emerge.

"Your son," she whispered angrily through clenched teeth, "did not deserve—"

"Harry?"

A familiar voice made her turn her head in surprise.

 _Of all people…_

Harry's eyes widened at the sight of Elisabeth Shaw standing a couple of feet from where they were sitting, coat draped over her arm and a downcast expression, her lips set into a thin line of disquiet.

She hadn't changed much since she'd last seen her. She was now wearing her fiery red hair in a bob, not unlike Harriet's, if not a bit more conservative, a perfect match to her upper class attire consisting of a grey pencil skirt and eggshell coloured blouse with frills down the front and at the sleeves. But it was her eyes, Harry detected, what had changed the most. The usual confidence and assertiveness she'd seen while growing up, now burst with sadness, concern and, perhaps, a bit of guilt.

"Elisabeth…"

"How's Freddy?"

There had been a mixture of caution and unease laced in the question. Harry walked up to her, more to preserve the privacy of their conversation than anything else.

"He'll be fine," she lied, her voice a notch over a whisper.

The last thing she wanted at that moment was to show any kind of weakness to the person partially responsible for her marriage's failure. It didn't help that her simple presence made Harry's blood boil with rage, not so much for the loss of her husband, who she had learned to forget, but for the avalanche of gloom and regret her betrayal had caused. Her grief, once again, had been taken hostage by a darker, more violent emotion. Harry held onto it like a lifeline, grabbed the edges of her anger tightly, realizing to her horror how it was the only thing that managed to keep the unwelcomed tears at bay.

"I'm glad to hear that," Elisabeth said, unaware of the extent of her friend's internal turmoil. Her weak, apologetic smile had lasted less than a second. "I called him earlier. It was such a shock to find out he had collapsed and had been brought here. We spoke two days ago."

"I know," Harry said, arms folded over her chest, still refusing to break the ice.

"H—he told me you wished to talk to me about what happened to my father." She swallowed hard, visibly shaken and rather uncomfortable with the entire situation, with the murmuring of people around them, with the cold stare her once best friend was now casting upon her.

"Yes," Harry said curtly. "We happen to be handling the case."

The whirlwind of emotions inside her was making it very difficult to sympathize with her friend. It was wrong, and unfair, and utterly insensitive of hers to so brazenly dismiss what was probably the most traumatic event in Elisabeth's life. But, if there was something that Harriet Makepeace found impossible to forgive, was a betrayal of her trust.

"I'm sorry," the redhead shook her head as if trying to start over. "I meant to return your call. It's just… It's been so hard, with the news of the m—murder and the press and the separation…" She let out a sad chuckle as she wiped the sudden moistness from her left eye. "I know I don't deserve your sympathy on that last count, and it might be too late to bring this up, but I'm sorry _Tit_ … about everything! If I could only go back…"

Harry hadn't heard her childhood nickname in ages. It might have been the flash of memories that began flooding her mind, or the gradual crumbling of Elisabeth's wall, but something caused her impenetrable shell to crack. She wasn't particularly interested in what her ex-husband had been up to, nor in the hardships of their relationship and yet, she found herself extending an olive branch.

"I'm sorry things with Robert didn't work out," Harry offered, trying to sound sincere and failing miserably.

"No, you're not," Elisabeth replied through a short laugh. "We both now I deserve it."

"Lizzie…"

"Look, I don't want to talk about him. I just came to find out about Freddy's condition and… and hoping to see _you_. I just wasn't counting on _him_ being here," she said flashing a disapproving glance towards Lord Bishop, who still sat quietly by himself on a plastic chair by the water fountain.

"They're close," Harry shrugged. Anxiety took a hold of her stomach, and she forced herself to broach the subject. "Freddy still doesn't know, and I intend to keep it that way."

Elisabeth regarded her pensively for a long moment. "Harry, Paul was…"

"His best friend's son," she cut in. "Let's leave it at that."

There was a stretched silence between the two women. A sombre cloud from the past that dawdled over the quiet hum of voices, coughing and rushed steps from medical staff as they came and went.

"How are you holding up," Elisabeth asked. Her eyes held an honest concern that made Harry's initial weariness waver, much to her own chagrin.

"I'm okay, just a bit tired."

"If there is anything you need—"

" _Makepeace!_ "

They both turned toward the voice that had risen above the rest from the other side of the waiting area. Harry's emotions peaked all at once when she saw Dempsey rushing to the quiet corner where they'd been standing. His suit was rather crumpled and the once perfectly knotted tie now hung loosely down his untucked shirt. She didn't give his haggard look a second thought, couldn't really think through all the tension and fear that had been building inside her over the past several hours, and which seemed to have materialized instantly inside her chest upon hearing his voice.

She tightened her fists to keep all those rapidly surging emotions at bay.

"The housekeeper told me what happened," Dempsey said, alarm etched all over his face. "How's your dad?"

Harry tried to offer an answer, but the words appeared to be lodged in her throat, caught in the lump that made every attempt at swallowing so damned painful. By some miracle, she'd managed to keep the prickling behind her eyelids in check. Looking around, she noticed Lord Bishop and Abbot observing them from the plastic chairs she had vacated just a few minutes before, Elisabeth standing awkwardly to the side, clearly giving them some privacy, the rest of the people in the room still speaking in hushed tones amongst themselves, yet stealing the occasional curious glance in their direction.

The place was overly crowded, way too oppressing...

The heave of emotions that had bubbled to the surface upon Dempsey's arrival kept intensifying. All it took for them to overflow was the light touch of his hooked finger under her chin as he gently lifted her face to meet her eyes. It was at that moment when Harry finally let go of the last vestiges of her resolve.

Tears spilled over as her walls crumbled. It took an instant for Dempsey to react, his gaze filled with affection and concern. With a loving ' _c'mere angel_ ', he slid his arms around her taut frame and pulled her into him. Too exhausted to offer any resistance, she simply allowed herself to fall quietly into his embrace while muffled sobs began to rack her body in silent waves.

Her mind threw her back in time, to a night when he had held her in a similar manner after her dear friend Sarah had been brutally murdered. Except, this time, her arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, her fists clutching his shirt at the sides under the cloak of his jacket. This time, she didn't just find comfort in that warm embrace; she wanted nothing more than to melt into him and let the rest of the world disappear.

She had no idea how long they stood holding each other in that discrete corner of the waiting area. She really didn't care. All that existed at that very moment was the tenderness of his touch, the whispered words of comfort that soothed her down to her very soul, the mild rocking of their bodies as they swayed to a silent tune nobody else could hear.

After what seemed like a small eternity, Harry's breathing mellowed, and she felt the debilitating strain of fatigue as her body began to relax. A bit ashamed now by the public display of emotion, she pulled back just enough to produce a scrunched up tissue from her pocket to wad at the moistness in her eyes and cheeks.

"Look at me," she sniffed. "I'm a bloody mess!"

She let out a watery chuckle, looking up at him for confirmation, but all she was met with was a pair of loving eyes.

Harry lowered her gaze in a demure gesture, and caught a glimpse at how Lord Bishop was looking at them. It made her uncomfortable for some odd reason. She tried to convince herself that she was being silly. That they were in a tight space with not all that much to look at but the boring posters on the walls and the dull interactions between people. Still, she grabbed Dempsey's left sleeve to direct him towards a pillar, behind which, they could talk more privately.

But the moment she pulled at his arm, he grimaced, grabbing her wrist at once with his right hand to prevent any further tugging. It was then when she noticed the birth of a bruise along his jaw, and the small cut above his eyebrow.

"What happened to you?" she asked, unable to keep the distress out of her voice.

"Long story," he replied through a lopsided grin, not giving it too much importance. "Let's just say homophobia's a nasty business…"

"And the shoulder?"

"Shoulder's fine. 'Nough 'bout me. How's your dad?"

Harry was about to answer when, as if on cue, the doctor walked out of the double doors to the ICU and called her name. She turned to him hesitantly, caught a glimpse of Dempsey's encouraging nod and walked towards the older man in a white coat, head held high, brave façade back in place.

"Lady Winfield," he greeted, his voice either kind or overly tired. Harry spotted a foreign accent, faint but noticeable. "I'm Doctor Wagner. Your father has experienced a case of severe hypotension, most likely caused by shock or anxiety. According to his medical history, he wasn't taking any Beta-blockers or nitro-glycerine, which are usually the most common culprits for men his age. Now, you told our staff earlier he's not taking any antidepressants, is that right?"

"No, he's been… he doesn't like to take medication," Harry answered absently. "Is he going to be all right?"

"We've administered some plasma and hydrating serum. He's resting now. I'd like to keep him under observation throughout the night just out of precaution, but his prognosis appears to be favourable. If his condition improves over the next few hours, I'll be happy to release him some time tomorrow."

"Can I see him now?" she asked, her eyes darting to those ominous double doors.

"Yes, of course." Doctor Wagner bobbed his head once in affirmation. "Family members can pay him a brief visit. But I'm afraid anybody who's not staff or a patient is forbidden to spend the night in the ICU. You'll be able to see him again tomorrow morning at nine, during visiting hours."

Harry despised hospitals. She always had. They were full of painful memories and bitter regrets. As she walked down the row of beds, her eyes travelled over the machines and small monitors emitting foreboding sounds, the eerie tempo of life slipping away. Sounds she had never wanted to hear again.

At the far end, she saw her father. He looked fragile and small, and appeared to be asleep. There was a small screen above his bed showing a series of even spikes, and an IV hooked to his arm with a clear liquid flowing through the thin tube. Harry reached for her father's hand and was instantly comforted by its warmth.

"Hi, daddy," she whispered trying to smile. "You gave us all quite a fright." Freddy didn't react to her words, he kept perfectly still, lost in a deep slumber. But if he couldn't reply, Harry figured he'd at least be soothed by her voice, almost as much as she was simply by talking to him. "There are a lot of people out there wondering how you are doing. Abbot has been pacing up and down the waiting room so many times I fear he might have left permanent tracks on the floor. Uncle Duffy is on his way over. He went home to get some of your things should you need them, though I hope I won't come to that. Lord Bishop is also here. He brought you a book of poems… Oh, I forgot to bring it in," she winced. "Don't worry, I'll tell one of the nurses to give it to you before I leave. Unfortunately, they don't let me stay overnight, but I'll be back to see you in a few hours. The doctor said he might let you go home tomorrow."

Harry kept stroking her father's hand, hoping to infuse him with strength and comfort. "Lizzie came to see you as well. She's really worried about you. So is Dempsey, for that matter. He rushed over here looking like something the cat dragged in. I still have to hear the story behind that one," she said through a wan smile that gradually faded into a sour frown. "I've been such a coward, daddy. I need to talk to him about something. Something that happened a long time ago, right after mum died… I just… I don't want to lose him…"

"Excuse me, M'Lady," a kind voice spoke from behind her. "I'm terribly sorry, but I must ask you to leave now. It's hospital regulation. Visiting hours ar—"

"I know," Harry said offering the nurse a complacent smile. "I'll be back at nine o'clock."

The woman looked relieved. She probably had to deal with her share of arrogant aristocrats who didn't appreciate being told what to do by someone beneath their social status. Harry knew the type, and made a point to show the nurse she was not the belligerent type by giving Freddy one good-bye kiss on his forehead and walking quietly towards the exit.

When she stepped into the waiting area, she noticed Abbot and Lord Bishop sitting side by side, talking quietly. Opposite them, she saw Dempsey leaning against the wall next to Elisabeth, who was telling him something in hushed tones, while he listened, arms folded over his chest. He nodded with a small smile at something she had just said, whispering something back that made Elisabeth's slight smile grow a tad.

Harry felt a horrible sense of déjà vu washing over her. It took about a second for the four of them to see her come out of the ICU, but it had been enough time for her to get a sense she might have been interrupting something.

Abbot had been the first one on his feet, closing the short distance between them briskly, followed by Lord Bishop, Dempsey and Elisabeth.

"How is he?" the valet asked, visibly apprehensive.

"He's resting now," she said, suddenly exhausted. "But the doctor said he's going to be fine. They're just keeping him overnight for observation." Running a hand through her hair, feeling the stress of the past several days weighing down on her heavily, she said, "I'm going home. I need to get some sleep."

"I'll drive ya," Dempsey offered.

"No," she declined a bit too harshly. "I'll get a cab."

She saw the surprise and the disappointment in Dempsey's face, and felt a tinge of regret that vanished the moment her mind reminded her of the coy smile he'd been sharing with Elisabeth just a minute before. The image of her friend 'the backstabber', and her partner 'the womanizer' openly flirting in the waiting area had forever been carved into her brain and whipped her heart so hard she had felt it clench.

Perhaps it was just fatigue that was making her see things that weren't there. Perhaps she was taking things out of context. Perhaps she was just overreacting. But the sad truth was that she had already been burned once. Badly. And she convinced herself that her mistrust was completely justified under the circumstances.

"We can ride together, Abbot," she continued addressing the valet. "I think I'll spend the night at my father's loft. Thank you all for coming. I'll let you know about Freddy's condition tomorrow."

With that, she turned around and headed for the exit, way more warn and defeated than when she had arrived a couple of hours before.

 **[TBC…]**


	15. Angels and Demons

Hello, everyone! First of all, I apologize for the lack of update last week. I was having a creative crisis and, though I knew what needed to happen in the story, it just wouldn't translate into the page the way I wanted. Also, it took a bunch of will power for me to sit my butt at the computer and start typing…

I must say, though, your comments, reviews and PMs infused me with the creative energy I needed to work on the fic. So, thank you for the push!

Also, a special thanks to **Ostrich** for her nagging, patience and evil eye.

Happy Thursday to all!

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Angels and Demons

The bedroom looked more like a warzone than a quiet resting place. Piles of discarded clothes laid scattered across the unmade bed: shirts in a wide variety of patterns, different colored Dockers, blue and stonewashed jeans, ties ranging from conservative to downright gaudy…

Dempsey stood in briefs at the foot of the bed contemplating the unimpressive collection of garments, frustration taunting his already sour mood. He pulled the crimson stained piece of tissue he'd used to cover the slit on his chin the razor had caused while he'd hastily shaved, figured another mark to his already battered face wouldn't make much of a difference. He had inspected the small cut above his eyebrow, the purplish tinge across his cheekbone, the emptiness in his eyes as his reflection had stared back at him, mocking his inability to hold its stare for more than two seconds.

His shoulder was also giving him hell. He'd been trying to ignore the nagging pain for the better part of the day, but it had gone from moderate discomfort to absolute agony. Still, it paled in comparison to the crushing pressure currently constricting the better part of his chest that had settled in shortly after leaving the hospital in the early hours of the morning.

A quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand indicated he should be ready to leave in about half an hour. Without further hesitation, he angrily grabbed a pair of beige Dockers and scanned the assortment of shirts as he put them on, settling for a pinkish looking one he'd fished from the back of the closet, though Makepeace would have argued the color was actually 'salmon'.

 _Tomayto, tomato…_

Dempsey opened the top chest drawer and picked up a fake Rolex he had bought in Chinatown for ten dollars a few years back. It was a flawless replica that could only be told apart from the real deal by the intermittent ticking of its second hand. Where in a Rolex it flowed without pause, his fake one ticked by one second at a time. Still, it was a nice touch.

He was trying to figure out which of the ties would best go with the pink shirt when the phone rang. Finally! He'd been waiting for Chas' call all afternoon. He'd provided the factory with a fairly accurate description of 'The Reaper', hoping they'd find a match either in their computer files, or in Records. He rushed into the living room, smashing his toe on the coffee table on his way to the phone and cursing loudly before picking up the phone with an annoyed 'hello', his usual greeting of 'yo!' stashed away in a jollier corner of his brain.

"Dempsey…"

It wasn't Chas.

His frown deepened and he closed his eyes as an intense heat rush flowed from his head down his body. He couldn't deal with this now, not when he was trying to keep focused on tonight's undercover job. He let out a heavy sigh, the stretched silence weighing heavily on him, until he forced the name to roll over his tongue with difficulty.

"Makepeace."

He didn't know what else to say, hadn't been expecting her to call—not so soon, anyway. She had been very clear the night before: she needed space. It was obvious they needed to talk, that their relationship was on life-support for reasons he still failed to grasp, but that clearly went beyond anything he could bring into it at the moment. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, after all. He always knew he was beneath her, that she deserved better, but had never counted on it hurting so damn much to let her go.

Before things had gotten so intense between them, there had always been a glimmer of hope, a sweet possibility to consider. The platonic aspect of their relationship had infused his dreams with the promise of 'what if'. Once the 'if' had become a reality and the rug had been pulled from under his feet, he had felt helpless during the freefall.

Now… Well, now all he could do was brace himself for the impact.

"Are you going back to 'Oz' tonight?" she asked.

The coolness in her voice made Dempsey clench his jaw, terminal velocity an uncomfortable certainty at that point.

"That's the plan," he answered through a bitter lopsided smile.

"I will be at the safe house," she informed him. "There is something I'd like to confirm with Isabel."

His curiosity piqued, Dempsey's attention was drawn into the conversation for the first time. "What's that?"

"I rather not talk about it over the phone. Meet me there after the club."

He was about to put up an excuse not to go, anxiety clawing fiercely at his gut, but thought better of it. They were in the middle of a case. One that, if gone awry, would have devastating consequences for both Harry and her father. If nothing else, he could always hold on to the fact that he was a damn good cop. Personal feelings didn't factor into the job.

"Okay," he mumbled unable to conceal his reluctance. "I'll see you there."

"Dave will be covering the shift this evening," she informed him. "Apparently a hot tip came through warning th—"

"Yeah, yeah… I know," he cut in.

The resources at SI-10 had been stretched thin ever since a very reliable source had given them heads up regarding a possible heist involving the Bank of England the night before. Of course, keeping a Mexican prostitute safe was low on their list of priorities. Dempsey was beyond grateful that Spikings hadn't decided to pull the plug on the whole 'witness protection' operation. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he was asked to put in some overtime to work on that other case.

His musings stretched into a long pause, and it was Harry who broke a silence that was already bordering on the uncomfortable. "Will you be wearing a wire tonight?"

A flicker of concern had seeped into the question, undetectable to anybody who didn't know her as well as Dempsey did.

"No time to waste setting that up," he said. "Besides, it'd be too risky."

"If something goes wrong, you'll be on your own in there," she warned, and he could perfectly picture the crease of her brows as she spoke those words.

"Hey, I know what I'm doin', okay?"

For a moment, there was no reply. Then, a barely audible 'typical' squeezed through the earpiece. It dripped with condescension.

"Is that yet another reproach?" he growled before he could stop himself.

"You're a big boy, Dempsey," she snarled. "I'm done lecturing you. You're going to do what you want anyway! So, go ahead, keep the boss out of the loop! Don't wear a wire! Don't take the bloody painkillers, for all I care! I'm done worrying about what you _do_ or _don't_ do!"

Dempsey's irritation reached a new high. "It always goes back to the fucking pills! For _Chrissakes_!" he yelled stomping over to the coffee table where the bottle of painkillers had been forgotten the night they had been fooling around on his couch. He ripped the lid open and poured two thick tablets onto his hand, popping them into his mouth and swallowing them without the aid of any liquid to ease them down. He wasn't entirely sure if he'd taken them to tame the physical pain, or the emotional one, but hoped it would, at the very least, get her to lay off him for a while. "There!" he hissed into the mouthpiece, "Just took two of those _magical_ pills! Happy now?"

"Stop being such a patronizing bastard," she shot back. "Don't think I'll be losing any sleep if you can't manage to stop by the flat tonight. Perhaps there are other places you'd rather be."

"What the hell's that s'pposed to mean?"

The quiet sigh from the other end of the line fed his building puzzlement.

"Never mind."

Her voice had turned from defiant to deflated.

"No, what do you mean by that, Makepeace?" he demanded angrily. When no answer came forth, he let out a short, humorless chuckle. "You know, I'm done playin' riddles with you. I got enough on my mind without actin' as the mouse in your sadistic cat games."

A shaky breath made its way through the receiver followed by a painful whisper. "If that's what you think this is, then you don't know me at all."

With that, she hung up the phone, leaving Dempsey clutching the receiver tightly. The inert beeping of the empty line sounded as bitter as any snide remark, more so. With a slowness that comes from the heavy blanket of disappointment, he returned the phone back to its cradle. As the overwhelming void inside his chest began to grow, Dempsey let out one deep breath, then another, then another…

The telephone went flying across the room a second later, smashing against the wall right above the low stack of shelves. Once again, the annoying beep came to life, an inanimate laughter that made his eyes sting so unpleasantly he was forced to blink the discomfort away. It was a foreign sensation, a poison without an antidote.

 _Damn you, Harry!_

He sank on the couch and leaned forward, head hung low while he pretended to study the alternate patterns of the parquet flooring. Numbness had set in by the time he finally got up and dragged his body into the bedroom, where he finished getting dressed without paying much attention to the end result. Once done, he opened the nightstand drawer and grabbed a hold of his Magnum. He went as far as wrapping his fingers around the handle before changing his mind. If anybody at the club even suspected that he was packing heat, his cover would definitely be blown, or worse…

He snapped the drawer shut with finality, snatched the closest jacket on the bed, and headed out the door.

* * *

By the third scotch on the rocks, Dempsey was thanking his lucky stars he had decided to take a cab instead of driving his Merc to the club. He didn't usually drink that much, especially not while on assignment, but the alcohol had a soothing effect, and if it managed to drown just a fraction of the misery that had latched onto him for the past several hours, then so be it. On the plus side, his shoulder had never felt better.

It hadn't taken him long to scan the scene, recognizing some familiar faces from the day before, and taking in the new ones. It was just a bunch of men, _people_ trying to have a good time, to desperately hook up with someone, to forget that loneliness was a permanent burden, only to be pushed away in those rare moments shared with another, someone who was also aware of that sad little secret, albeit for a short while.

Dempsey refused to play the coy game of flirting, and had rudely declined the advances of two patrons and a member of the waiting staff. He only hoped not to run into good ole Sanjay. Then again, letting one more person down that night wouldn't make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.

He laughed into his glass, feeling the buzz of the scotch clouding his mind, and a weird tingling spreading down his limbs to his toes and fingertips. A part of his brain warned him against succumbing to the effects of the alcohol, and Dempsey was considering whether to listen to the little angel over his shoulder when a tall, elegant man walked into the club, coppery hair neatly combed to one side.

 _Show time!_

Dempsey pushed away from the stool and was surprised to find himself a little unsteady, his knees going weak for a moment. He held onto the counter, allowing several seconds to tick by while that wobbly feeling abandoned his legs. Once he made sure he could walk toward his target without stumbling, he took his half empty glass of scotch and made his way to the opposite side of the bar through the purple lights and the smoke, a twinge of nervousness intensifying with every step. There were so many things that could go wrong, if he were to list them all, a Russian novel would seem like a pamphlet in comparison.

Suddenly, the blue silk tie felt too constricting, his shoes too heavy, his palms too sweaty…

The Reaper caught Dempsey's eye as he approached, weariness clouding his features before recognition hit him. He said something to the bartender and then turned to Dempsey with a polite smile that oozed staged diplomacy.

"I didn't expect to see you back so soon, Mr. …"

"Cooper," Dempsey answered extending his hand. "James Cooper."

The other man shook his hand, his pale green eyes never leaving Dempsey's.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Cooper," he said, resting his elbow on the counter. "My name's Andrew. You could say I'm the public relations around here. Is there anything I can do for you?"

There was something about the man's voice that unnerved him. Even over the noise and bustle of the busy place, its timber had an eerie quality to it that Dempsey found deeply unsettling.

"I was told I might find what I'm looking for here, but I gotta say, this ain't really my scene."

The redhead's eyebrow shot skyward. "What exactly were you expecting to find, Mr. Cooper?"

Dempsey offered a lazy, noncommittal shrug and took a sip of scotch. "Somethin' the right kinda money can buy," he finally stated with such resolute conviction, it caused the other man's brow to quiver.

It might have been a bit too soon to let the cat out of the bag. After all, he hadn't gained Andrew's trust just yet. But it was a risk he was willing to take. He either took the bait, or it would require a little more prodding for him to bite. One way or another, he'd find his way in.

"Are you suggesting we deal with drugs here?"

The suspicion in the man's tone was blatant, but Dempsey refused to back down. He held Andrew's severe stare, a conceited smile spreading across his lips. "One can only hope that's the least you offer. Otherwise, I'm afraid I've been duped."

"Really?" Andrew chortled. "By whom?"

Dempsey bit his lower lip pretending to remember.

"This massive dude…" he described depicting the man's bulk with a gesture of his hands. "Dark hair, dark eyes… Jay somethin' or other… Jay the drum…"

"Jay 'the Barrel'?"

"Yes, that's it! Jay 'the Barrel'!" Dempsey's smile broadened as the other man's eyes narrowed in what he could only assume was mild mistrust. "He did mention how only the deepest pockets find their way in, though."

Andrew's lips curled almost unperceptively. "And, how deep are _your_ pockets, Mr. Cooper?"

 _Hook, line and sinker!_

"Oh, they're deep," Dempsey bluffed. "Wall Street deep."

Andrew nodded slowly, his interest in the American growing by the second. It was doubtful he would ever suspect him of being a cop—no one ever did—but, perhaps his reticence had more to do with his lack of pedigree. This was supposed to be a clandestine gentlemen's club, the operative word being _gentlemen_. Maybe a lowly mutt like Dempsey didn't stand a chance. Although, regardless of a person's particular background, he was willing to bet the common language spoken was money. It made the world go 'round, after all.

"I'd be happy to accommodate you," Andrew said scanning the crowd over Dempsey's shoulder, then finding his gaze once again. "Unfortunately, there's a two month waiting list. I hope you understand. Our services are quite exclusive."

"I trust you can make an exception," Dempsey winked with a bit of arrogance. "I'm only in the country for a couple more days."

They held each other's stare for a long moment as the ruckus of the club boomed around them. Andrew's lips curled into an enigmatic half smile, his head cocked to the side in a mildly inquisitive manner.

"It's five thousand up front, just to get through the door," he said at last, taking a sip from what appeared to be a Rum and Coke. "It is all _a la carte_ from there."

"I don't happen to carry that kind of cash around," Dempsey said without skipping a beat, his voice even. "But if you give me a bank account, I can have the money wired within the hour. I'm sure your bank will have no qualms letting one of their preferred customers know a deposit has been made, even at this late hour on a Friday."

Andrew tried not to appear impressed, but Dempsey saw right through his façade. Bank transfers took a lot longer than an hour to go through. Under regular circumstances, they could take up to five days. Unless, of course, one had millions in an account, in which case the banks were willing to bend over backwards to accommodate such demands. Or, one could put in the request through a top level government agency, such as SI-10, which could make it happen in a matter of minutes. All Dempsey had to do was make a phone call.

"Very well, Mr. Cooper," the tall man said as he wrote down a series of numbers on an all too familiar business card. "The moment the transfer comes through, I'll be happy to take you behind the curtain."

In less than an hour, Dempsey found himself following his host backstage. He had provided the factory with Andrew's full name, the name of the bank, and the account number used for the clandestine operations. It had been a relatively simple transaction on both ends. SI-10 had come through without a hitch, and the bank had informed Andrew of the deposit shortly after.

The narrow corridor looked quite unimpressive, and not at all what Dempsey had expected. For the kind of money they charged for access, there should have been ancient Greek statues lining the hallways and cherubs playing the harp on every corner. Instead, he walked along a dimly lit space with a few scattered brass sconces along the way. Depressing even by Brooklyn standards. He saw the Eye of Providence carved above the door at the far end of the hallway and, for some odd reason, the hairs in the back of his neck stood on end.

The door opened to reveal a tiny lobby, its walls lined with red velvet wall covering and a couple of elaborate ottomans that, for all he knew, could have dated back to the Restoration. But it was the two austere looking men standing by the second door what caught his attention. They were obviously armed, and had probably used their guns on occasion. One of them walked up to Dempsey, asked him to raise his arms, and patted him down as he checked for a weapon. Satisfied, he gave Andrew a quick nod and stood aside to let them through.

Dempsey's eyes widened the moment he entered the adjacent room. It was like something out of one of Jaqueline Onassis' vacation homes or, at least, the little he had seen on journals and magazines. It was massive, elegant, and bathed in white, from the set of sofas in the far end, to the linens covering the king-sized four poster bed on the opposite side, to the sheer curtains through which one could still see an impressive view of the Thames. Even the scarce pieces of furniture, which had been lined up with small lit candles, had a distinct coral hue.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Andrew said taking a bottle of champagne from a small refrigerator that had been concealed into the wall. He set the bottle and two flutes on the coffee table and Dempsey took his cue, sitting down on the sofa beside him. He could feel his thundering heartbeat near his temples as he watched the other man fill both flutes with that unmistakable golden fizz.

They had barely taken the first sip when a balding man walked into the room, his speech and demeanor very much like Abbott's. It didn't take a genius to figure out he was either a butler, or a valet, or a servant, or whatever the hell the British upper class labeled their hired help. He came in with a box that lay atop a silver tray, which he proceeded to rest daintily on the coffee table before asking whether he could 'begin preparations', to which his host answered with a nod.

"Some are angels and some are demons," Andrew smiled. "Which one would you rather bed?"

Dempsey didn't really have an answer to that. He just observed his host's movements through thick lashes and brought the flute to his lips. He wondered what the protocol was when hiring such services. What exactly did Andrew mean by services ' _a la carte_ '? Would he be handed a menu of 'services', or even prostitutes, to choose from?

Not five minutes later, his questions were answered when a row of eight young girls of different ethnicities marched quietly into the room dressed in skimpy robes that left little to the imagination. It was difficult to pinpoint their age, but Dempsey estimated the range to be between twelve and fourteen. His stomach clenched, and he felt nauseous all of a sudden. It was as if an iron fist were squeezing his abdomen tightly. His mind was swimming in a strange fog, whether from the effects of the scotch or the surreal situation, he couldn't really tell.

The girls stood before them, head bowed and submissive, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

 _I wonder which ones are demons_ , Dempsey pondered, finding the thought rather tragic.

"Approach," Andrew signaled to a petite Asian, third from the right. His command prompted the girl to move forward, trepidation marking her every step. Then, turning to Dempsey, he added, "Allow me to make a suggestion. Think of it as the appetizer."

Before Dempsey knew what was happening, the Asian girl sat on his lap, her fingers curling softly around his hair. He tried not to recoil at the touch, noticed how she was trying not to shake, but was rather unsuccessful at the attempt. He offered her a tepid smile, tried to put her at ease, but the truth was he was probably just as anxious as the young prostitute.

 _This is wrong… This is so wrong…_

Andrew dismissed the rest of the girls and they walked out of the suite just as quietly as they had entered.

"Don't worry," he said as he took a small, flat mirror out of the box, then began arranging four perfect rows of white powder on top of it. "Everybody is a bit nervous at first. This will make you feel more at ease," he said offering Dempsey a thin, silver cylinder. "On the house."

Dempsey swallowed hard. He tried to ignore the girl on his lap who was now timidly nibbling at his left ear. He tried to ignore the fact that the room was being guarded by two armed men who probably needed just a minimal excuse to blow off his kneecaps (or something else!). He tried to ignore Andrew's unwavering stare as he waited for his reaction...

But, perhaps, the hardest thing to ignore was Harry's voice in the back of his mind.

 _If you get into trouble in there, you're on your own._

And it was that very voice that drove him to the edge of the cliff. He took the silver straw from the red haired man hoping he wouldn't notice the way his fingers trembled slightly and leaned over the lines of cocaine, but couldn't bring himself to snort it.

"I assure you, it is top grade. Much higher quality than anything 'the Barrel' ever sold you."

The girl had shed her robe and now sat naked beside him, her hand wandering up his thigh into forbidden territory as she fiddled with the fly of his Dockers. Dempsey grabbed her wrist tightly, stopping her from probing further, his heart hammering wildly inside of his chest.

 _You're such a patronizing bastard! You don't know me at all!_

He briefly closed his eyes and felt the knot in his stomach tightening. He leaned once again over the white lines, his mind drowning in a sea of despair, and snorted the first one through one nostril, then the second one through the other.

The sharp sensation made him slump back against the couch, body tensing as his eyes began to water. It was a normal reaction to the cocaine, the effects of the powder hitting his senses.

Or, at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

 **[TBC…]**

* * *

Okay, so writing this chapter made me feel a bit sick to my stomach…


	16. Down the Rabbit Hole

Hello, everyone! I am really flattered by the interest this story is still getting. I was running out of steam a couple of months ago and, had I not had some written chapters to keep it going for a while I might not have made it this far (the muse was *that* uncooperative). In any case, thank you so much for your feedback and encouragement, it's been greatly appreciated.

A warm thanks also, as always, to **Ostrich** , for her continued support and friendly nudges.

Anyway, Happy Thursday and… please, forgive me for what comes next.

* * *

Down the Rabbit Hole

The cab driver announced the arrival to their destination after a ride that felt way too long. Dempsey handed him a twenty pound note for an eleven pound ride, and stumbled out of the cab before the driver had the chance to give him any change back. It had turned out to be one hell of a night. His mind still reeled over the events that had spun his moral compass in such a way he could barely tell left from right. All he knew at that moment was that he needed a shower just about as much as he needed air, if nothing else, to try and wash away the disturbing images still lingering inside his brain. Perhaps a good night's rest might do the trick. Things would probably seem less fucked up in the morning… or so he hoped.

The distant rumbling of thunder only added more fuel to his already incensed musings, and Dempsey felt the first storm drops on the bare skin of his forearms. The streetlights offered thin blue illumination in the misty rainfall, but the night was pleasantly cold, and the temperature kept dropping steadily. Jacket in hand, he had folded his sleeves up to his elbows to fend off some of the heat that had been burning like a furnace in his body ever since he'd left the club, and was now loosening another button of his collar as he nimbly skipped into the apartment building feeling an overabundance of energy.

The walls of the poorly lit hallway seemed to close in on him as he made his way to the elevator. He pressed the button three or four times in a row—as if that would make it come any faster—and began fidgeting with the ends of his unmade tie, which hung limply from his neck and swayed to the rhythm of his restless movements. After a few short seconds, his impatience got the better of him, so he opted to climb up the five flights of stairs instead. Not a big deal. At the moment he could've shot up fifteen floors to the top of the building, run back down, and still have plenty of energy to spare. He gingerly made his way up hopping two steps at a time and feeling as spry and lithe as a teenager. It was fantastic!

By the time he reached the third floor his entire body tingled as if someone had plugged him into a source of unlimited power. The walls rushed past him, seemed to move of their own accord as the narrow corridor began to close in on him. He frowned, suddenly haunted by the strange feeling that the building was about to swallow him whole. His legs were jittery from the strain, yet they kept moving fast up the stairs, maintaining a steady pace without so much as a pause.

 _The floor might dissolve under him if he slowed down_.

As he made it to the landing of the fourth floor, a shadow appeared out of the corner of his eye and he pivoted on his heels so sharply he almost lost his balance, only to be faced with two ordinary doors behind which, he assumed, the shadow must have hidden. He stayed bolted to the spot for several long moments, staring at the two doors for any sign of the missing shadow, but it was gone.

 _Vanished!_

It had melted into the wall leaving no trace behind. Dempsey thought he heard it laughing from a different dimension, from somewhere on the other side. He got closer to the door on the left, pressed his ear to it and listened intently for any hint or sound that might give it away. A whispered breath brushed past his neck, and he turned around fast but, once again, there was nobody there.

Fed up with the elusive entity's mocking, he decided to continue his trek up the stairs. That's where his legs were leading him anyhow. He knew he had to get to the fifth floor, but wasn't exactly sure why. He knew his way, but didn't know what he was doing there. The surroundings looked familiar, recognizable in the same way a place looks familiar in a dream.

By the time he sprang over the last step he was panting, sweating profusely and his chest felt like an entire marching band was performing _Highway to Hell_ full blast inside it. He regarded the row of closed doors that lined up the hallway and tried to remember which one would lead him to the exit. He had to choose wisely. The wrong door could send him on a guaranteed path to his death.

Dempsey walked up and down the long corridor methodically. It stretched out further each time, with an endless number of doors at either side that appeared to be multiplying with every glance. He knew one of them would lead him to safety, while all the others would suck him straight into Hell. They all looked the same, but it was just a trick, he knew that much…

" _A" for Ammo, "B" for Bullet, "C" for Calibre, "D" for… Death!_

He laughed. It was a quiet, uncontrollable laughter that bordered on psychotic. He tried to compose himself, well aware that he had to make a choice—soon. Standing in the hallway would only make his fate tick away faster. He shrugged, then squared his shoulders, his decision made.

 _Life's hard and then you die…_

And so he stood there like a statue in front of an ordinary door which, he suspected, was anything but that.

"Apartment five-D," he said out loud as if speaking the words would make the door magically open. "Five dee…"

His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, and the thunderous pounding inside his chest intensified to a rather painful beat.

"Welcome to the hotel California," he huffed out in a hoarse chuckle.

The key to the apartment appeared as ordinary as the door itself. Dempsey was studying its silver glint, the unremarkable ring that looped from its hole, the serrated edge of its contour when, out of nowhere, he saw a shadow crawling up his arm. It drew a tight gasp out of his throat, making him jump. He growled with a feeling that might have been annoyance, flicked it away, and caught it scurrying under the floorboards.

 _Bastard!_

The fucking drummer inside his chest went berserk. He gasped again, this time just to try to get some oxygen into his increasingly sore lungs. The air had grown thick and heavy, and breathing was becoming a bit of a struggle. Right or wrong no longer mattered. He just had to get the hell out of that limbo. It took several attempts for him to give up trying to insert the key inside the lock. Realizing his access had probably been denied, he took a step back.

He was getting ready to move onto the next door when the one he had been facing for the past several minutes inched open, like a movie in slow motion, and Dempsey came face to face with a figure standing at the other side of the threshold. It said something to him—something about following some sort of procedure—but the words sounded strange and disjointed.

 _Was it the language spoken in Heaven or the language spoken in Hell?_

He blinked a couple of times, trying to bring the figure into focus, feeling trapped in a surreal moment that was making it nearly impossible for him to think straight. The body was moving away from him and, realizing he was nailed to the spot and unable to command his legs to take a single step, walked back towards him. He was supposed to be afraid but, funny enough, he felt no fear. Instead, he was swept by a rush of excitement. What was approaching looked entirely like...

"An angel," he muttered under his breath.

One that was now standing before him, making his senses buzz with exquisite intensity. He could smell the sweetness that emanated from it. When its hand reached up to his forehead, the softness of the skin made him lean into the touch. The words it spoke didn't make any sense, but the voice was as hypnotizing as the song of the most bewitching of mermaids. Then, his gaze fell upon those full lips, perfectly sculpted, which kept moving to the sound of that enchanting language.

Dempsey was unable to hold back the impulse to take the angel into his arms and kiss it with a passion worthy of the sinful heat of hades. There was no resistance at first, just a little pant of surprise, but as his movements became bolder and more demanding, the angel began to rebel against him. Dempsey frowned, not understanding its viral reaction, its blatant rejection.

 _Was it all a smoke screen?_

The thought of it all being a hoax enraged him. The entity, whatever it was, was just toying with him. It had lured him with its charm only to deprive him of its promise.

 _Fuck it! He wouldn't let this cunning chimera ruin his fantasy. He wanted… no, he_ needed _the release._

What had started as a game of playful curiosity became a struggle. The fiercer the angel's resistance, the more determined Dempsey was to make it submit. He pushed its small frame hard against the wall, grinding his hips against its warm body and singlehandedly pinning two delicate wrists above its head while his other hand slithered under the thin skirt, trailing his open palm up a trembling inner thigh and reaching the warmth of its core. He let out a triumphant moan against its neck, his arousal hitting a new high.

The creature was now squirming wildly at the onslaught and screaming nasty curses that only made his actions bolder. It had turned violent and belligerent, like a wild animal, and when Dempsey claimed its mouth again, rough and unrelenting, he felt the sting of its bite on his lower lip, the taste of his own blood further firing his desire for total domination.

 _Feisty, little bitch!_

With savage force, Dempsey spun the demon around, pressing its chest against the wall in one harsh shove. He tightened his grip around its wrists and used his larger build to immobilize its wriggling body. He ran his hand up the curvature of its hip, past its waist and up the mound of one soft, tender breast, felt a tinge of satisfaction when he realized how the demon quivered under his touch. He took a fistful of hair and yanked its head back, biting down on its pulsing jugular possessively. His excitement grew tenfold when he heard the desperate yelp—a raw sound that made his blood rush downward…

There was a sudden tightening in his chest, a sharp stab painful enough to make him growl, but he chose to ignore it. Other parts of his anatomy, after all, demanded immediate attention. He brought his free hand to the fly of his trousers and began fiddling with the zipper.

At that moment, the figure began to desperately twist and writhe between his weight and the wall. It kept shrieking threats and insults to no avail. When those angry words failed to deter the brutal ambush, it switched strategies, letting out pathetic little whimpers and begging him to stop. But Dempsey was void of empathy or compassion for the cunning creature. He was beginning to find its sobbing pleas more than a little annoying.

"Shut up!"

He had rasped the order through clenched teeth, had used his free hand to cover the demon's mouth. That gave his prey the chance to bite down so hard at the soft flesh beneath his thumb, Dempsey let out a loud howl or rage. Having found the only chance it might have to get the upper hand, the creature didn't hesitate to take it. It spun around sharply, yanking its pinned hands free and twisting its body to knee its assailant hard in the groin. The angle was awkward and the impact almost missed the desired target, but it had been accurate enough to make Dempsey double over. He gasped in surprise and let out an angry snarl, holding on to a nearby bureau that prevented him from falling to his knees when pain exploded in waves throughout his entire body.

Strangely enough, the clumsy kick wasn't really the source of Dempsey's distress. He was actually clutching his chest, where the agony had intensified considerably. He blinked several times, gasping for air, and glanced up to see the panting figure regarding him with open disgust.

Except now, to his utter horror, he recognized the face...

" _Makepeace?_ "

His voice had been meek, barely above a whisper of shock and confusion. As the realization of what had just happened descended upon him like a bucket of ice-cold water, so did the nausea. Tasting bile, he clenched his teeth tightly, self-loathing clinging to every fibre of his being, and tried his best to keep the jabbing pain in his chest at bay, along with the sudden queasiness and uncontrollable shaking. Harry's image came in and out of focus, and he had the distinct impression he was about to pass out at any moment.

She stood before him, trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. The rain outside had intensified. It hit the windows of the flat with an angry tempo that matched the rhythm of their erratic heartbeats. Other than that, there was just bitter silence. He inched closer and she took two uncertain steps back, bumping into the naked wall of the small hallway.

"Harry…" Dempsey breathed.

Eyes wide and voice quivering, she spoke the stern warning with resolute conviction.

"If you touch me again, I'll kill you!"

The electrifying energy Dempsey had felt just minutes before had fled him, and he was now slumped over the bureau, exhausted and baffled. He tried to say something, but the words failed to rise past the lump in his throat. There was an intense throbbing in his head that matched the thumping of his jagged heartbeat. A moment later, his vision blurred and Harry turned once again into a hazy, undefinable figure. He shook his head to clear it, tried to command his limbs to move, but his mind and his body seemed to be on two very different planes. Dempsey glanced up in Harry's direction, pleadingly, but the moment he did so the shame and regret returned full force, so he lowered his head undeserving of her forgiveness.

 _Jesus Christ, this couldn't be happening!_

He caught a glimpse of the crimson stain on his pink shirt only to feel the wetness right above his upper lip a second later. Instinctively, he lifted his hand to his nose, puzzling through a jumble of thoughts as he tried to make sense of the bright red smear on his knuckles. Just then, a small gasp reached his ears followed by a feeble " _you're bleeding_!"

Makepeace was beside him in an instant, but he still didn't dare meet her eyes, even though she was asking him to do so. When he failed to comply the first time, she insisted with a severe command a second time.

"Dempsey, look at me!"

He obeyed, slowly dragging his gaze up to meet hers, trying his best to focus on her face, but failing completely. He felt her cool hand on his forehead, though he was tempted to jerk away from her touch out of sheer disgrace.

"God, you're burning up!" she said quietly, her soft breath caressing his closed eyelids.

Concern was now bursting out of her otherwise detached tone, and Dempsey didn't understand how she could even stand to look at him, let alone _touch_ him. She sounded worried, and he couldn't help but wonder about her sanity.

 _What the hell was wrong with her!_ _She should just let him drown in his own misery. He didn't deserve her pity. He didn't deserve her sympathy. He didn't deserve… her._

A weak attempt to push her hand away was enough to deplete him of what was left of his remaining strength, and his knees buckled, no longer able to support his weight.

Isabel had woken up with all the ruckus and came to a stop at the entrance of the hallway just in time to witness Dempsey's collapse. Makepeace quickly kneeled beside him, placing his head on her lap to try keep him awake as long as possible.

"Call an ambulance!" she ordered the stunned girl who stood wide eyed across the hallway. When the youngster hesitated for a moment, Harry shouted. "NOW!"

The girl was startled into action, and Harry's attention turned back to her partner. His face was white as a ghost, and she used the corner of his shirt to wipe the blood off his upper lip, gentle dabs that did little to ward off the sinking sensation. The hemorrhage appeared to have stopped, but Dempsey was clearly having difficulty keeping his eyes open. She smoothed a lock of damp hair away from his furrowed brow and kept speaking empty reassurances to him.

"Try to stay awake. Don't worry. Help is on the way. Help is on the way…"

The entrance door swung open and Dave walked in with a fresh pack of cigarettes in hand to find the startling situation unfolding before him. Stunned for a few moments, he quickly squatted next to Makepeace, who kept whispering words of encouragement near her partner's ear. But Dempsey barely noticed Dave's presence. He kept struggling to draw air into his aching lungs, which constricted with excruciating agony with every breath he took, while his heart was at the brink of bursting right out of his chest.

The tunnel was closing in on him: long, dark and terrifying. Caught between dream and reality, he wasn't quite sure whether he was asleep or awake. All he could hold on to was her soothing voice, like a beacon in the night.

"Is this Hell, Harry?"

He struggled to get the words across from the other side, wasn't even sure he had spoken them out loud. He swallowed hard and recognized the tangy taste of blood, warm, thick, distinctively metallic against the back of his throat. And, just when he was about to succumb to the blissful nothingness of oblivion, he heard that hypnotic voice again, felt the brush of cool, soft lips on his forehead caressing his skin with a whispered confession he might have just imagined or dreamed.

It was enough for him to hold on just a little longer. At that point, he had no other choice but to find his way back, out of the darkness.

 **[TBC…]**


	17. Starving One's Fear

Hello, everyone! Thank you all for your comments and feedback. Believe me when I tell you they make my day. Sorry about the late posting (although it is technically still Thursday in my neck of the woods). This one has been a race against time and I would have liked to tweak it a bit still, but… oh well! I hope you enjoy it.

Once again, a special thanks to **Ostrich** for, well, making things work! And for always being 'on the ball'.

Happy Thursday!

* * *

Starving One's Fear

She had been sitting on the same plastic chair for God knew how long, standing on occasion to stretch her legs and walk the short distance between the enclosing walls of the room while she relived the events that had taken place a couple of nights ago. She wondered whether she could ever get past that fear that racked her body every time she thought of the way Dempsey had looked at her, the way he had grabbed her as if she meant nothing—less than nothing—, the panic that had risen inside her when he had so easily overpowered her… and then the completely different type of panic that had surged through her when she had seen him drop to the floor nearly unconscious.

He had just been released from the ICU a few hours ago, and now rested peacefully, or seemingly so, in one of the barren rooms at King's College Hospital. The initial medical assessment had been that his collapse had been caused by a drug overdose, then a more exhaustive evaluation had concluded that his spike in blood pressure had been brought about by a combination of analgesics, alcohol and opiates, present in the blood at levels that should have made his heart give out.

 _Lucky bastard!_

How could this have happened to him? To _Dempsey_? The one person who usually refused to take so much as an aspirin! And now… It was clear his recklessness was a trademark impossible to erase. No matter what, he was going to keep taking risks regardless of the outcome, of how it might affect those around him, of how it might affect _her_.

"Not again, damn it!" Harry whispered wiping a stray tear from her cheek with a trembling finger.

Despite her exhaustion, she had been unable to sleep a wink for the past two nights. She had tossed and turned on her bed for hours, worried about her father, and trying not to think about her partner for, every time she did, she was trapped in that terrifying memory playing inside her brain on a loop, like a nightmare, impossible to shake off.

She had gone to visit him in intensive care, had wondered if she should call his mother to let her know what had happened, was determined to do so when the doctors informed her Dempsey had been responsive enough to be transferred out of the ICU, so she had decided not to worry her unnecessarily. He was pulling through. It was good news. So, why was her relief blunted by hesitation? Why was she so afraid to face him once he woke up?

Still, regardless of her mounting apprehension, she remained beside him in that bleak hospital room, vigilant of any movement or change in his condition. So far, save for a couple of brief instances of obvious distress during sleep where he'd stirred and whimpered slightly, he'd been rather quiet and still.

Harry watched the even rise and fall of his chest, the occasional twitch of his fingers, the mild frown on his face… She knew perhaps she ought to hold his hand, touch his bare forearm, offer the kind of limited comfort that the situation warranted. But she found herself incapable of such gesture. Instead, she sat on that dreadful chair, a distance away, observing his every move, whether out of fear or concern she couldn't be sure. It was strange. She was looking at Dempsey and, yet, couldn't erase the image of the monster that had assaulted her in such a shocking manner.

 _That wasn't him. It was the drugs. That wasn't him!_

She kept repeating the thought like a mantra, tried to let it sink in, but anxiety kept growing like a cancer inside her. He stirred a fraction and she braced herself, her attention focused on his eyes, fluttering weakly in their struggle to open. When they finally did, Dempsey searched the room slowly, his gaze finding hers across the span of insipid beige between the bed and the chair. He swallowed hard a couple of times, his throat obviously dry, before greeting her with a feeble 'hi'.

"Hi."

Her simple reply tasted a bit sour, sounded like the echo of her subconscious. She tried to smile, but only managed to pull off a shadow of a smirk. There was a cup of water on the small nightstand beside the bed, and she figured she ought to offer it to him, ease his discomfort in some way, but she was magically glued to the chair, unable to move or speak.

"How's your dad?"

The hoarse question took her completely by surprise, and she blinked at him, a bit stunned.

"How's _my dad_?" she frowned, then a bitter chuckle rose from her chest. "Let's see… He's home, regaining his strength with every passing day, and his pallor has returned to normal, which is much more than I can say about you!"

Her tone denoted her latent anger, and he winced, guilt ridden.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. He was fighting his drooping eyes from sliding shut as he used his limited strength to speak.

"You bloody bastard!" she hissed, eyes brimming once again to her own chagrin. "You promised! You promised you wouldn't do anything stupid, at least not without running it by me first!"

"I know," he admitted quietly, beaten by her accusation, by his own exhaustion. "I never meant…" he grabbed his throat with a grimace, and this time Harry walked over to him, brought the cup to his lips and watched as he greedily gulped its content down to the last drop while she cradled his neck with her free hand to guide him. The softness of his hair against the palm of her hand sent a primal signal through her bloodstream, but she made a conscious effort to stifle it, leaving her heart longing for the denied emotion.

Drained from the mild exertion, Dempsey slumped back on the pillows and mouthed a weak 'thank you', though his breathing had become slightly more labored and his lids were still heavy with the effects of the sedatives.

Harry fiddled with the empty cup, overwhelmed by the need to keep her distance yet unwilling to leave his side. She wondered how to best tackle the big elephant in the room, but figured the sooner they pushed through the subject, the better. Perhaps now wasn't the best time. After all, her partner was barely coherent, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open and both breathing and speaking were proving to be a struggle.

"How did I get here?" he asked, cutting through her musings.

Harry's gaze traveled from the plastic cup to him, and she answered evenly. "You collapsed at the safe house."

A gradual frown creased his brows and a puzzled expression appeared on his features.

"I went to the safe house?" he finally asked, his eyes narrowed.

"You don't remember?"

Surprise and confusion collided as she saw him shake his head slowly, still trying hard to recall those missing memories.

"You were in really poor shape," she informed him, and tried her best to keep the resentment out of her voice. Noticing how her words made no dent in his recollection, she ventured to ask, "What is the last thing you remember?"

He sighed and, staring straight at the ceiling, he offered her a mild shrug. "I remember getting out of the club… It was loud and full of smoke…" he took in a deep breath, gathering the strength to continue. "I think I called a cab and… Damn! I don't really remember the ride or where I asked the cabby to go."

"Dempsey…"

"I'm sorry," he cut in before she could say anything else. "I never meant to scare you like this. I don't know what got into me. An' you're right. It was stupid, an' reckless, an' I shouldn't've gone in there without backup. Or, at least, a half decent exit plan."

The string of apologies seemed to drain him once again, and he closed his eyes, the fog inside his brain almost visible through the tired expression on his face. Harry observed him in silence, partly angry and partly relieved that he didn't remember the hell he had put her through just two nights ago. It was so fresh in her mind, the images still so vivid, it was hard to believe he had merely suppressed it. Then again, he hadn't been himself at all that night, or so she was desperate to believe.

"You're lucky to be alive," she told him.

For a moment she thought he was going to crack a joke. It was his infamous way of wriggling himself out of uncomfortable conversations. But he simply nodded with a solemn 'I know', and lowered his gaze, unable all of a sudden to meet her eyes. Only when the silence between them stretched to the edges of awkwardness, did he speak again.

"Is it over, Harry?" he practically whispered.

She bit her lip, unsure of what he was asking exactly, hoping not to tackle her most dreaded subject in the sterile surroundings of a hospital room, so she feigned ignorance and stalled.

"What do you mean?"

"You _know_ what I mean," he said hoarsely, his frown intensifying. "This thing between us. Whatever it was… Is it over now?"

"I… I don't know," she answered truthfully. "There are so many things we need to talk about, I just—"

"C'mon, Makepeace! You've been pushin' me away almost from the get-go," he panted, his irritation drowned by fatigue. "Admit it: you're havin' second thoughts. _Christ_ , at least be honest 'bout it!"

Harry moved her head from side to side slowly, anger and incredulity mingling painfully inside her chest.

"You have no idea what…"

But her words trailed off when a steady knock on the door interrupted her retort. They both watched Spikings as he walked into the room with uncharacteristic caution. Upon seeing his most troublesome detective conscious at last, his semblance darkened a notch, though Harry could have sworn she had seen relief in those beady eyes.

"I see we have you back amongst the living," he deadpanned. "For a while we thought you had copped a packet." Sensing that his statement had been lost in translation, Spikings clarified. " _Kicked the bucket_ , in your popular vernacular."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Dempsey quipped, his eyes darting briefly towards his partner, making her anger flare once again.

"Disappointing me is your specialty, Lieutenant," the Superintendent stroke his mustache a couple of times as he approached the bed, stopping at a safe, impersonal distance from where Dempsey lay. "I'm going to have a tough time explaining this one to Division." He spoke the words with the gravitas his position entailed, but his tone was less edgy than usual. "There has been, however, a bright side to your rum shenanigans after all."

"What do you mean?" Dempsey asked.

"It seems you have unwittingly uncovered the missing link to a trail of illicit money the NCA has been tracking for over two years now—shady deals, drug trafficking, extortion... That bank account you provided has been connected to an international money laundering operation that expands over four continents. That missing piece of the puzzle might give the NCA evidence enough to finally crack down on these thugs. I'd congratulate you on a job well done, except we're still nowhere near finding out who the hell murdered Charles Shaw."

"I wouldn't say that," Dempsey said struggling to sit up on the bed. "Whoever killed Shaw knew what goes on inside that club. You think drug dealin's and extortion is bad 'nough? Try underage human traffickin'. Children used as sex slaves pawned off to the highest bidder."

Both Harry and Spikings listened quietly from opposite sides of the bed, the disturbing allegations sinking in slowly as the magnitude of the case began to weigh in on both of them. It went way beyond murder. It could very well go beyond SI-10's jurisdiction.

"What exactly goes on in that place?" Spikings asked, his expression one of solemn curiosity.

"I just told you," Dempsey said looking a bit paler. "I was offered a buffet of kids to choose from. My host picked one at random as an 'appetizer', complimentary lines apparently part of the deal."

Harry's eyes went wide. "Oh, God, Dempsey, tell me you _didn't_ …!"

He turned to her sharply, his eyes piercing through hers like tempered steel.

"I don't sleep with children!" he snarled through clenched teeth. They held each other's stare for a long moment, the unspoken statement lingering in the uncomfortable silence.

 _How can you even ask such a thing?_

The accusation had been wrong on so many levels, she wouldn't know where to start.

"I know you wouldn't," she said carefully, and pushing through her discomfort she added, "But you weren't yourself that night. You admitted to me earlier you don't remember how you made it to the safe house, so maybe you just—"

"Had sex with a child?" he roared, his building rage at the verge of exploding. "You really think I wouldn't remember somethin' like _that_? What the hell's _wrong_ with you?" When she failed to offer an answer to his indignation, he let out a long sigh in an attempt to reel in his anger and started telling them what he _did_ recall. "Once I was left alone with the kid, I lead her to the bed, sat beside her an' asked her questions for about half an hour. Figured it could pass for some kind of fetish if she were to talk to anyone, although from what I gather, confidentiality agreements forbid them to discuss what goes on inside the bedrooms when left alone with… with _clients_." The word seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth, and he swallowed dryly a couple of times. "Shortly after, I gave the bulldogs outside the door some lame excuse an' left the place while I still could think more or less straight. I don't recall much more after that. As I said, I might've taken a cab, but it's all…" he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose trying to access those elusive memories, his frown a clear sign of his failure to do so. "It's all I remember."

"Did the child tell you anything pertinent to the case?" Spikings, who had been listening arms folded to his detective's recollection, appeared to be the most serene person in the room for once.

"No," Dempsey mumbled. "Kid sounded like a robot. Avoided eye contact at all times. Shrugged at most of my questions and seemed afraid to answer others. I didn't wanna push her. Poor thing was scared shitless as it was. Didn't get nothin' outta her."

Dempsey's gaze was fixed on the faded patterns of the thin hospital blanket. He had been visibly shaken by the entire ordeal, not just by the unfortunate mixing of prescription and illicit drugs, but by the intricacies of the case itself. Harry glanced over toward her boss, and was surprised to see him regarding her partner with a trace of sympathy.

"Next time you set up an undercover job without my express authorization, you'll be bound to a desk for the next three years," Spikings said sternly. "Have I made myself clear, Lieutenant?"

Dempsey nodded. He looked tired, defeated.

"As to the witness protection operation to safeguard the 'star witness' in this case," Spikings continued, "I'm afraid it will have to be called off as of noon tomorrow."

"No, you _can't_!" Dempsey blurted.

"I can and I _will_."

"If you let her loose, she'll be dead before sunset!"

"That will no longer be my problem after noon tomorrow, nor yours!" Spkings voice went in crescendo. "You're off the case until further notice. And don't push your luck or I will make your dismissal from this case a permanent one!"

Dempsey opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and decided that pushing Spikings' buttons might be counterproductive at that juncture.

"She could always come with me to Winfield Hall," Harry offered before she could stop herself. "Freddy and I are driving there tomorrow morning. Getting her out of London might keep her safe for a while."

"No way," Dempsey shook his head firmly. "It's too risky. I won't allow it."

She raised one defiant eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest. "Pardon me? You won't _allow_ it?" she sneered. "It is not _your_ decision to make."

"I'm afraid he's right, old girl," Spikings spoke. "We're not even sure who we are dealing with. It might be too dangerous."

"Think 'bout your father," Dempsey reasoned. "You'd be putting his life at risk as well."

"I am thinking about my father!" she shot back. "This girl seems to be the only key to finding out what really happened to Charles Shaw in that hotel room. Protecting her and what she knows might be the only way to clear Freddy's name, his reputation! I'm willing to take the risk and neither of you can stop me. I'm already off the case and, as of tomorrow, she will no longer be under police protection."

Spikings' patience was already running thin, and his tone denoted that much. "What else do you hope to get out of this witness, Makepeace? A detailed account of what happened that evening? A perfect description of the killer? A lost Polaroid in one of her pockets, perhaps?"

"I don't know," she admitted, her gaze alternating between her boss and her partner. "But she is just a child, and she needs protection. I'm not going to feed her to the wolves just because the department went over its monthly budget. She's coming with me tomorrow and that's final."

Dempsey nodded in understanding, his lips pressed in deep thought for a moment.

"Let me go with you," he finally said. "I'm off the case as well, and you could use an extra eye out there."

They both knew being _officially_ off the case didn't mean working on it _unofficially_ , and Harry was sure that was what Dempsey had in mind. Still, his proximity was making her uneasy, and she felt hesitant to acquiesce. Under different circumstances, she would have been happy and excited to spend time with him at the family house, away from work and London's hectic life, but now…

"You might have been dismissed from the case," she tried to smile, "but until you get dismissed from hospital you won't be going very far."

"I'm fine," he assured her. "I'll sign off on my own recognizance and be outta here by tomorrow."

Harry looked over at Spikings, hoping for some much needed support, but her boss seemed to be occupied going through his trench coat pockets in search of something, very likely, the car park ticket. He had already expressed his thoughts on the matter and his opinion had been heard. But he knew how to pick his battles, and this one was one he had obviously given up on, opting instead to stay out of their business and letting them sort it out by themselves. What their detectives did on their time off was clearly none of his business. And if there was a chance they could keep that bloody child away from trouble, then so be it. Makepeace had worked with him long enough to practically read his mind.

"All right," she conceded in the end. "I suppose there's no point in arguing with you."

Harry could feel the dread spreading through her veins, the foreboding anticipation clouding her mind, tainting her judgment. This trip would either make or break their relationship for good, and she wasn't entirely sure she could push past her ancient fears… or her most recent ones. She wasn't even sure what outcome she was hoping for. What was it that April McCallum said?

 _Feed your courage, starve your fears._

Well, then, she would do just that.

 **[TBC…]**


	18. The Room at the End of the Hallway

Hello, there! So sorry for the delay posting this chapter. Stupid hectic life gets in the way of my hobbies, grrrrrr! In any case, I would like to thank you all for your continued support. I really enjoy all your comments, long and short. A special thanks, as usual, to Ostrich for helping me out with the Muse, the little details and the story overall (especially on such a time crunch). And, also, another special thanks to certain Twitterers for kicking my butt into gear. Thanks to your friendly nagging I got this one ready to post today. ;P

Side note: This chapter takes place through Harry's POV. I tried to make her sound as British as I could, but if I made a mistake with certain terms not used in England, please forgive me and feel free to point it out in the comments below. I'm always happy to learn.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy and… Happy Thursday!

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The Room at the End of the Hallway

It had been a cumbersome couple of days. Not only was it rather tricky to keep a restless Isabel concealed from prying eyes at the large country house, but it seemed like all attempts at civilized discourse between Harry and Dempsey were doomed to fail, taking their bickering into a whole new dimension, even by their already high standards. It was like they had regressed to those awkward weeks after Dempsey had joined SI10, except now, they knew each other so much better, their jabs went bone deep, slicing through each other's emotions with little effort and maximum damage. Not that it took a lot to make their blood boil. A simple one word remark or a poignant silence would do the trick. From the never-ending drive to Winfield Hall, to the limited meals they had shared while in the mansion, most of their interactions had been tainted by bitter indifference at best, and explosive arguments at worst. And, although Dempsey wasn't quite up to par judging by his slightly washed out pallor and visible circles under his eyes, the effectiveness of his scorn during such arguments was often flawless.

Even Lord Winfield, who had opted to keep his opinion to himself and had taken the Switzerland approach on the whole matter, had been shrouded in a cloak of caution when the two converged in the same space, usually in the dining hall, or during the occasional brief nightcap.

The situation was made even more awkward by Tiberius North's presence who, wishing to offer Freddy his support during such troubled times, had postponed his latest trip to Asia to spend some time with his old friend at Winfield Hall. He was a nice enough chap, cordial and agreeable, albeit elitist at times, trait that became quite blatant during every conversation he held with Dempsey. Never on the attack, he would direct subtle remarks at the American, who would swiftly deflect them with a wry smile and a defiant, yet incredibly on-point, comeback. Oddly enough, they both seemed to regard each other with a healthy dose of respect, which both amused and fascinated all bystanders, particularly due to their diametrically opposed backgrounds.

Mealtimes were particularly entertaining.

"This cottage pie is absolutely delectable, Freddy old chap! My most sincere compliments to the chef!" Tiberius North stated visibly pleased with the contents of his plate. "Do you enjoy our traditional dishes, Mr. Dempsey, or are they more like an acquired taste to your new world palate?"

Dempsey hid a sardonic smile behind his glass of Merlot, took a sip, and answered with a mild shrug. "I enjoy ground beef as much as the next guy, Tiberius. I gotta say, though, nothin' beats a good ole American burger if you know just where to find them. But, I agree with you. They serve some kickass food here at Winfield Hall."

Tiberius North's grin widened, taking the other man's comment in good humor. "They certainly do!"

Not overly hungry, Harry focused on her plate as she gathered a few meat crumbs on her fork while she half-listened to the conversation, her mind still miles away. She had not gotten over the shock of the dreadful assault that had brought about an avalanche of nightmares every time she had dozed off ever since. She could still feel her partner's probing hands on her body, his roughness as he moved against her without an iota of care or consideration. She still felt his hot breath on her neck, up her jawline, behind her earlobe, like a brush of betrayal on her skin. She still heard his harsh commands, nauseating words mangled by fear in her fractured memories.

Her stomach clenched, and she put her fork down, her appetite shot for good. A comment by Tiberius North pulled her out of her reverie, and she raised her eyes to acknowledge him, hoping her wan smile wouldn't give her sour mood away. He was talking to her in that smooth, elegant way that she had been enthralled by while growing up, long fingers toying with the stem of his wineglass while his dark eyes regarded her from across the table. She was having trouble concentrating on what he was saying, so she forced herself to focus on his elongated features from his face, to his aquiline nose, to his very frame, so tall and lanky, his father had affectionately nicknamed him "stickman" long before she was even born, not that he would allow anybody but Freddy to call him by such handle.

When the intonation of his voice raised a notch, she realized he had just asked her a question. Taken off guard, her mind raced to process his words and come up with some coherent answer to avoid appearing rude or uncaring but, for better or worse, Dempsey beat her to it.

"Salads and bird food's more her thing, sir," he sneered through a chuckle that only Harry knew to construe as bitter. His eyes then locked on to hers as he continued. "'Sides, she ain't all that fond of meat…"

Her expression turned cold as her stare narrowed in on Dempsey like a laser beam.

"I'm not all that hungry," she said quietly, trying not to appear defensive. Her rage, though, beamed through her statement.

"How about some dessert?" Freddy quickly interjected. "We're having those apple tarts you enjoy so much."

"Thank you, but I'm really tired," she replied not making eye contact with any of the three men at the table. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. I think I'll retire to my quarters now. If you'd excuse me…"

"Of course, darling. Should I ask Abbot to bring some tea up to your room, perhaps?"

"No, thank you, Freddy. That won't be necessary."

Harry kissed the top of her father's head as Tiberius North stood up politely and wished her good night. Dempsey, however, kept his head bowed and his eyes downcast, not even acknowledging her departure.

She briskly walked out of the dining room, trying not to care about her partner's disparaging attitude, and kept her head held high and her stride firm all the way to her bedroom, where she finally slumped against the closed door and forced herself to breathe deeply several times. She knew she ought to check up on Isabel, make sure she was staying put in her room at the end of the hallway, just as she'd been instructed. Abbot, the only person aware of her presence at Winfield Hall besides her, Dempsey and her father, was doing a good enough job in keeping an eye on her, making sure all of her needs were met, and locking the door to avoid her wandering about the mansion unattended. Harry could only imagine how frustrating it must be for a girl like Isabel to be confined to a room for days at a time, even if such room was probably bigger than most of the houses she had ever lived in. Yes, she probably ought to check up on her even if it was just to pay her a social visit, but all Harry felt like doing was crawl under the blankets and forget about the case and everything surrounding it for the next several hours. She could only hope for a nightmare-free slumber. Not that it seemed like a very realistic wish at that point, but perhaps her fatigue would win over, if only just for tonight.

As expected, her night was plagued by disturbing dreams about her past, about her partner... Thoughts that poison the mind in the dark hours of night, its venom infecting the brain, stunting its capacity to think rationally. She slept intermittently, tossing and turning for most of the night and watching the hours tick by the bedside clock in slow motion. Exhaustion finally won over at around five o'clock in the morning, and her lids drifted shut to grant her some desperately needed rest.

By the time her eyes opened again the bedroom was filled with warm sunlight. Harry squinted at the clock and sat upright in shock. It was already past quarter to ten in the morning. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept past eight o'clock. She faintly recalled the disturbing images that had chased her dreams throughout the night, but sheer exhaustion prevented her brain from registering them into lucid thoughts.

Not overly concerned about having missed breakfast, she jumped in the shower and reveled in the steaming pellets of water that succeeded in washing away her recent anxiety, at least while in the confines of the spacious stall. But her mind refused to shut down, especially when conflicting emotions clouded her judgment, so it didn't take long for her thoughts to turn to Dempsey…

 _How did it ever get to this?_

The wonderful sensation of the warm water over her naked body did little to soothe her troubled soul. Enough was enough. She was determined to put an end to the senseless war that was gradually causing them to self-destruct. Harry could only think of one way to do just that. With a sudden surge of courage, she turned off the water and wrapped a bath towel around her slender frame, her mind made up.

Not twenty minutes later, she was already dressed in beige slacks and a white silk blouse, and her hair had been blow-dried into that stylish bob many of her friends had tried to emulate to the point where Harry feared she might have started a trend. With one last look at her reflection, and ignoring the faint dark circles under her eyes, she made sure the subtle makeup she wore was barely visible and free of smudges. Then she went to the chest to open the first drawer, found what she was looking for, and strode out of the room with a firm stride.

Breakfast could wait. First, she must talk to Dempsey.

It didn't take her very long to find him by the rose garden, leaning over the veranda overlooking the gardens, elbows resting over the sturdy stone. His back straightened the moment he saw her approaching, but his expression didn't give anything away. For some inexplicable reason, Harry's heart began to pound wildly inside her chest.

 _Relax_ , she told herself. _You're doing the right thing._ _He's probably sick and tired of arguing as well._

Although she tried to look casual as she walked up to him, she could feel the weight of her decision pulling her back like an invisible hand, clawing at her resolve. And just when she thought her efforts were hardly worth it, he looked up and acknowledged her presence.

"I'd've thought bein' in a castle would make it much harder to bump into someone you wanna avoid," he quipped, resting his back against the veranda and folding his arms over his chest. "Didja take a wrong turn or did Isabel get into some kinda trouble?"

Harry slowed down the pace, but kept walking toward him.

 _Don't falter now._

"Neither," she replied calmly. "I actually came looking for you."

His eyebrows shot skyward, though she couldn't really be sure whether it was surprise or suspicion what caused the reaction. Perhaps a bit of both. The hand inside her pocket caressed the metallic surface of the coin before she found the guts to bring it out and extend it to him as an olive branch.

He hesitated for a bit before taking the silver dollar, inspecting it with reverence before meeting her eyes for the first time. His face gave nothing away, but his hazel eyes had lost the hostility that had inhabited them ever since they left the hospital. He began to absently twirl the coin between his fingers, trick that had often fascinated her, especially by the ease with which he seemed to do it.

When his lips curled into a lopsided grin she felt the weight of the past several days lift off her shoulders in invisible waves. They were both aware of the significance of the coin. It was a white flag to an absurd war that had lasted long enough. He had first offered it to her a couple of years ago at the end of a case that had solidified their partnership into a winning team, and she had kept it as a reminder that he was capable of a humble gesture if the situation warranted it. He silently held her stare for a small eternity, then his eyes travelled down to her lips where they lingered for a moment too long.

And there it was again: that undeniable attraction that kept pulling them together like the opposite poles of a magnet.

"Guess I've been kind of a jerk lately," he admitted quietly.

"You've been under a lot of stress," she said, relaxing her side against the veranda right beside him. "We both have."

He shook his head, his focus now on the shiny coin. "That ain't no excuse. It's just…" he sighed, looking rather uncomfortable all of a sudden. He shrugged. "I don't take rejection all that good. Not when the chase stops bein' a game, y'know."

Yes. She knew. He had been honest enough to share his feelings with her and she had been too much of a coward to reciprocate.

If he only knew what was stopping her...

She ventured a little closer, enough for her arm to brush against his. "I didn't reject you."

He huffed out a humorless chuckle, still avoiding her eyes, but said nothing.

Harry felt the desperate need to shake him, to scream out how she really felt about him, to open up about her real emotions… about her fears.

It was time. She would not— _could not_ —put it off any longer.

"Come with me," she said in a tight whisper. "I need to show you something."

He turned to her, curiosity written all over his features, then nodded to her request without saying a word. One thing Harry appreciated about her partner was his ability to know when to ask questions, and when to wait for an answer. It didn't always pan out that way during the interrogation of a suspect, but lately, when it came to their personal relationship, he had learned to read her well.

They walked back into the mansion in silence, went through the tea room, past the library and across the entrance hall, to a separate set of stairs that curled up into the less used quarters of the west wing. A heavy silence enveloped them as they walked down the long hallway, rows of doors leading to bedrooms that were hardly ever used, lest a group of over a dozen people stayed over at the mansion, which was a rare affair as of late. Apart from the smart quarters on either side used by occasional guests, there was a room at the far end of the corridor that hadn't been used since Harry was a teenager.

In fact, she hadn't set foot inside it for over fifteen years.

With trembling hands, Harry turned the knob and stepped into the elegantly furnished room. The avalanche of emotions that washed over her caused her breath to catch in her throat. It was like stepping into a time capsule. Nothing had changed after her mother's death. The old bureau in the corner with butterfly print stationary, the flower print upholstered chair, the sheer lace curtains through which one could see the old oak tree where a swing used to hang, the bed where her mother had napped so many times...

The same bed where the innocence of her childhood got brutally butchered.

"This was my mother's quiet room," she began as she walked towards the window shifting other memories aside. "She used it as a study, would come here to read, write, nap… I sometimes stayed here with her and she would tell me stories about dragons and the heroines who slaughtered them." She turned to Dempsey with a wicked, half smile. "No need for a prince to ever come to the rescue."

He returned the half smile and went to stand beside her by the window. The views of the countryside were breathtaking on that clear autumn day.

"One day, when I was fourteen, I came up here with this boy… or, man, really. He was five years older than me. His name was Paul. Paul Bishop. You know his father." Dempsey nodded slowly and Harry could tell he was working on putting together the pieces to the mysterious puzzle. She ran a hand through her hair—a silly attempt to keep her emotions at bay—and took in a deep breath to gather the strength to continue. "Back then I thought flirting was a fun game, especially when an older boy seemed interested. Little did I know a little harmless fun would spin out of control so easily."

Dempsey's expression shifted from outright curious to slightly uneasy, his brows creasing as he listened to her words intently. She bit her lower lip, stalled for a second before pummeling through the emotional barriers that had allowed her to keep her fears bottled up all these years.

"He played along. He was a good actor, too. He pretended to be caring and mature up to the point where he ordered me to strip," she said, the flood of images that had been long buried making her heart ache. "Of course I refused. I wasn't ready to take the game that far, I was just a silly child playing grown-up. But he didn't like being teased by a fourteen year old. Before I realized what was happening he was on top of me, had me pinned down on the bed, dress torn down to my navel."

"Bastard!" Dempsey spat in a hoarse whisper. Visibly distraught by her words, he walked up to her and pulled her gently into his arms. "Fuckin' bastard!"

She let herself be held by him, her own hands shyly grabbing the sides of his shirt while she continued speaking, her voice void of any emotion. "My mother had passed away six months earlier and I was going through a rebellious phase, I suppose. I was angry at the world for taking her away from me so soon. I was so stupid! I decided to play with fire and I got burned."

"It wasn't your fault, sweetheart," he whispered near her ear. She could hear the tightness in his voice.

"All I remember about the whole thing is the storm," she continued, ignoring his words. "The lightning that lit up the room in quick flashes, the curtains swaying to the tune of the summer breeze. I didn't realize the power was out until Lord Bishop came into the room looking for us."

Her breathing became shallow as she tried hard not to break down.

"Harry…"

"I have serious intimacy issues, Dempsey," she told him through clenched teeth. "It has cost me several relationships throughout my life, a marriage…" she let out a shaky breath and added, " _you_."

His arms tightened their grip around her. "I'm right here," he assured her. "I—"

"I never meant to push you away," she hurried to say before he had the chance to say anything else, "but I was ashamed to tell you the truth. I just can't get past the panic, that stupid paralyzing fear that makes me freeze every time things get a little heated. I managed to fake it for a while. Long enough for my marriage to last as long as it did, but I knew I was only fooling myself. The truth is I could never shake the memory of Paul's crushing weight over mine, his hands roaming all over my body, his breath on my skin... The way he _demanded_ things of me without mercy."

She noticed how Dempsey's body suddenly tensed up. He pulled back a bit, his arms loosening the grip around her. She lifted her head to face him, tried to meet his furtive eyes but, for some odd reason, he refused to make eye contact. Very slowly, he stepped away from her, his brow furrowed as he rubbed his jawline, seemingly consumed by a disturbing thought.

"What... what happened the night I came back from the club?" he finally asked, his voice low.

This time he _did_ search her eyes, and it was Harry's turn to shift her gaze in avoidance. The conversation had taken a turn she wasn't prepared to take. It hit her harder than she had anticipated and, despite his firm request, she couldn't bring herself to tell him.

She really didn't need to. He _remembered_. The silence that stretched between them was the answer they were both dreading. It was packed full of betrayal and regret.

" _Jesus!_ " Dempsey choked out, his face quickly draining of all color.

He half leaned, half slumped against the wall when his legs appeared unable to support his weight. Harry noticed how tightly his hands were gripping the wall molding, realized almost immediately that he was trying to keep them from trembling. Stare trained on the wooden floor planks by his feet, he was fighting against the memory induced shock with all his might—even his breathing gave his state of mind away. It had turned shallow and a bit ragged.

She had never seen her partner so shaken before, and it rattled her.

Harry called his name softly, reached out to touch his arm but he flinched away from her touch. Though the reaction had been clearly involuntary, it still wounded her.

"It wasn't you," she told him inching closer. "That night you weren't acting like yourself. Dempsey… _it wasn't you!_ "

Once she got close enough to line up her body against his, she stood on the tip of her toes and, tilting up her head, planted a quick, soft kiss on his lips. When he didn't react, she tried again, this time a bit slower, taking her time to savor the moment until his lips finally twitched in response, returning the kiss hesitantly at first, but growing with desire with each passing second.

"I'm sorry," he apologized into her mouth, his voice filled with anguish. "I'm so sorry, angel!"

She held onto his shoulders and deepened the kiss to drown his apology in the depths of their mouths. He took the hint, wrapping his arms around her small frame and pressing her tightly into him. His body gradually became more relaxed as the kiss slowed down to an intimate, unhurried affair, breaking off into gentle lip brushes and brief, feathered pecks.

"I meant what I wrote on that note, you know," she said, her mouth still lingering over his. "You've been more than a colleague for longer than I care to admit, more than a friend even before that first kiss at the office." She offered him a reassuring smile in hopes she could fully get her point across. "And, I truly believe you can make me—"

"—whole again," he finished for her.

His gaze was warm on hers, the words of the enigmatic note finally making sense to him. Harry could see traces of regret in it, shame and guilt that she knew would torment him for a long time to come. A burden of mounting emotions that she would give anything to be able to erase.

"This was my favorite room growing up," she said. "I would spend every afternoon here, especially after my mum died. It held onto her scent, helped me remember her voice, her stories… It all changed that awful evening. Until today, I hadn't set foot here since then. I want to get rid of those bitter memories. I want this room to feel special again." She bit her lower lip, affording her just enough time to find her resolve. "Will you help me?"

It took a couple of moments for him to understand what she was asking. He brought his still trembling hand to her face, cupped her cheek and softly ran his thumb over her jawline. The tender gesture, such a juxtaposition from the horror she had been subjected to as an adolescent in that very room, brought tears to her eyes.

"Are you sure?"

The question had carried concern, respect, but above all, it had carried what had sounded like _veneration_.

"I trust you," she mouthed and, had they not been just inches apart, he wouldn't have been able to hear her. She emphasized her statement by softly claiming his mouth once again, then adding in a barely audible whisper, "I love you."

He appeared initially shocked at the sound of her words, as if he hadn't quite heard her right. Harry arched an eyebrow, amused by his stunned expression and awaiting a reaction that came a couple of seconds later in the form of a kiss, deep and slow and oh, so delicious it made her world spin.

"I take it that's a 'yes'," she grinned, out of breath once they pulled apart.

His mouth curled into a broad smile that culminated in a soft chuckle. "Lead the way, partner," he murmured near her ear.

And so, she took his hand, and led him to the bed.

 **[TBC…]**

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Okay, so in the next chapter we'll fast forward to the following morning and… what, no? Oh, okay. It's time for a smut-fest, I guess. Alas, it will have to be in September, as my summer is going to be a bit packed with travelling and family and other stuff. But rest assured, I will work extra hard on chapter 19 and hopefully it won't disappoint you.

Have a wonderful summer, everyone! (Or, winter if you are in the southern hemisphere.)


	19. Broken Shackles

**Hello! I hope everybody had a wonderful summer. As I promised back in June, here I am again with another update. I hope you guys like it. As always, a very special thanks to Ostrich for her continued support. And, a shout out to those kind cheerleaders on Twitter that urge me on and poke at my muse on occasion, now it is my turn to cheer _you_ up. **

**Sadly, I might not be able to update with the frequency that I would like (as I did in the past), so it might be a little while until the next chapter, but I hope you guys enjoy this one.**

 **Anyway, I promised you a steamy chapter upon my return, and I hope you won't feel disappointed.**

 **Happy Thursday!**

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Broken Shackles

The old bed creaked under their weight. Harry pulled him down, a gentle tug at his shirt meant as an invitation to lay atop her. He complied, resting half his weight on the mattress, rolling into her to plant a trail of gentle kisses from her temple to the crease of her mouth, where he exhaled a barely audible 'it's all right, princess', at which point Harry realized she was trembling. He pulled back to meet her eyes and offered her a reassuring smile, his hazel stare, though haunted by deep sorrow, was soft against the midday sunrays that filtered through the window. And she knew it would be all right. She was with Dempsey. There was nothing to fear.

Sheer will managed to bring her shivering under control, and her expression went from wavering to decisive. With a bout of determination, Harry's hand reached for the button of his trousers, deft fingers unfastening it without a hitch and moving onto the zipper just as Dempsey's hand brought them to a halt, lacing their fingers together and bringing them up to his lips. A small frown creased Harry's brows as she watched him rest their entwined hands on her stomach.

"I thought you were going to help me," she smiled timidly, as if her request needed an official seal of approval. The mild hesitation in her voice was impossible to ignore, and Dempsey let go of her hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin.

"I am," he said before bringing his mouth back to hers for a brief, feathered kiss. He shifted slightly, and rested his head on his other hand, arm bent at the elbow, to look down at her. "How come you never talk 'bout your mom?"

She blinked a couple of times, a bit confused. _He wanted to talk about her mum?_ Not exactly the turn-on tactic she was expecting. In fact, the way his free arm had draped across her belly, his hand at a complete stand still on her hip, lead her to believe sex was the farthest thing from his mind at that very moment. His curious gaze travelled over her stunned face.

Harry opened her mouth to say something, her mind scrambling over what to tell him. She wasn't used to talking about her mother. She had buried her grief so deeply, even Freddy's occasional remembrances hadn't been able to penetrate the barrier around those memories. She'd merely listen to him with a wistful smile, only to switch gears the second it was appropriate to do so. It wasn't that she refused to think about her. It had just been so painful at the time that she had simply learned to cope by not dwelling on the feelings her memory evoked. But now, her partner was patiently waiting for her to open Pandora's Box, and she wasn't entirely sure she could comply.

"People say we look a lot alike," she finally said with a mild shrug. "Her eyes were a different shade of blue, closer to green, I'd say. As you have probably guessed, she was quite a bit younger than my father."

Dempsey searched her eyes, his furrowed brow denoting confusion or… dissatisfaction. "But, tell me 'bout _her_. What was she like? Was she strong, like you? Independent to the fault, or more like a lady of the cou—"

"She loved horses," Harry cut in, an unexpected memory sneaking past the crumbling wall. "She'd go riding early in the morning, before the sun was even up. That was her favourite time of day. She always said there was something innately pure about dawn, mysterious and exciting, like the opening page of a book, the day ahead still unwritten."

"That's very poetic," Dempsey murmured, a mild grin forming on his lips.

A little bit more at ease, Harry bowed her head and placed it on his chest with a small sigh as her fingers began to play with the thin hairs of his forearm. "We would sit at that desk and she'd turn homework into a game," she continued with a small gesture towards the corner of the room. "Literature was her best subject. She instilled in me a love for books from an early age. We must have read _Pride and Prejudice_ more than fifty times!"

Lost in an avalanche of images and conversations, anecdotes began flooding her mind in a jumble, over spilling like a stream into a crock, while a number of memories that had been locked away for almost two decades bubbled up to the surface. It was like re-discovering her own childhood. Harry couldn't help but smile at some of the memories, while others were met with a pang of nostalgia.

"One day I came home crushed," she sighed. "You see, there was a boy I liked in school who had been so nasty to me, I ran to my mum in tears believing I wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough."

"Oh, screw him!" Dempsey replied emphasizing the sentiment with a quick squeeze to her shoulder. "Though, ya know… he probably liked ya back."

"That's what mum said," she chuckled. "Boys are just too immature at that age, while girls… well, we are lightyears ahead. But, like she said, eventually the right boy would come along."

"Yeah, sorry it took me so long," Dempsey said and, though she couldn't see his face, the smile in his voice came through loud and clear. "Had ta cross an ocean an' all."

"Oh, mum would've hated _you_!" Harry said lightly.

A low rumble of laughter reverberated through his chest. "Not very fond of Americans, huh."

There was a brief silence, long enough for her smile to fade and for her expression to turn sombre. "Not very fond of someone capable of breaking my heart."

She felt him stiffen and sensed, rather than heard, the thumping of his heart as it skipped a beat. He shifted on the bed, forcing her to roll to the side to face him, his expression grave as their eyes locked. "Harry…" he breathed out, but he was clearly struggling to articulate his thoughts, and when he finally spoke, his voice was at the verge of breaking. "I don't know how the hell things got so outta hand the other night, but I swear to ya I'd never…" he bit his lip, aware of how empty that assurance sounded under the circumstances.

When Harry realized how horribly he had misunderstood what she was trying to say, and where his mind had automatically travelled, she shook her head and quickly silenced him with a kiss. "No. That's not what I meant," she told him, her mouth still hovering over his.

"But—"

"I have never allowed myself to feel so deeply about anybody before," she cut in before losing the courage. "The lack of control makes my head spin sometimes. I trust you, but..."

His gaze searched hers questioningly, in silent agony as the moment stretched.

 _But?_

"I'm just worried about what's going to happen when the novelty wears off," she finally said averting his eyes. "I'm afraid I'll just become another name in your long list of conquests."

Dempsey was looking at her as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Just another name…" he murmured as if the words didn't make any sense to him. "Jesus, Harry… You have no idea what you mean to me, do you?" His voice, while still soft, had acquired a certain edginess. He was now half sitting on the bed, resting his weight on his stretched arm as he looked down at her. "I would kill for you! Hell, I'd _die_ for you! Damn it! Is there any way I can get through to you just how much I love you?!"

Harry was taken aback by the raw sincerity in which he had spoken those words. Shame washed over her like a cold shower, and she lowered her head to break eye contact. She wasn't being fair. He hadn't given her any reason to believe he was indeed toying with her. Nothing to indicate that what they had was a temporary arrangement, fun while it lasted but nothing more than an emotionally intense affair. Perhaps her fears were truly unfounded. Perhaps, she ought to let go of her preconceptions and follow her heart. If there was someone worth the risk, it was Dempsey.

Harry sat up on the bed and ran a hand through her tousled hair with a sigh.

"I know. I'm sorry," she whispered tilting her head to face him. She was met with a stoic expression that she interpreted as mild annoyance, although his features soon softened into a lopsided grin in acceptance of her apology. He glanced down at her fidgety hands, recognizing the nervous habit almost from the day they'd met, and a mild frown creased his eyebrows.

There, on her wrists, he saw the yellowish discoloration of recently bruised skin. It didn't take him long to connect the dots and trace the lesion to that dreadful night at the safe house. Reaching out for her right hand, he ran a slow thumb over the tender spots framing her wrist.

"It's really nothing," she assured him.

He let go of her hand but didn't say anything, didn't even look up.

"It came back to me," he told her after the silence became a little too thick. "I remember everythin'."

"And, yet, you weren't even there."

He let out a sad chuckle packed with regret. "I ain't gonna hide behind lame excuses. What I did was despicable, Harry." He swallowed hard, pinched the bridge of his nose to keep his emotions in check while he fought with all his might to get enough air into his lungs and, for a second, Harry thought he was going to break down in front of her. After a few moments, Dempsey opened his eyes again, jaw clenched as he met her stare. His eyes shone a bit glassy, but he quickly blinked the moistness away and regained his composure. "You know I don't… I don't deserve your forgiveness."

Her hand reached out to touch his cheek, her lips twitching into a smile.

"James…"

It might have been the use of his first name, or the tenderness behind her voice, or even the way her thumb traced lightly over the faint scar that marked his face, but she detected a gradual shift in his mood that culminated in a gentle kiss, barely a brush of lips, that soon turned into playful teasing. It took a bit of effort, but Harry finally managed to pull a genuine smile from him using a dash of romantic coercion by nibbling softly at his bottom lip, then pulling away the moment he tried to reciprocate. A huff of amusement pushed through his parted lips, at which point she gave fully into the kiss.

Harry ventured deeper into his mouth, holding onto his shoulders and straddling him in one swift manoeuvre. Surprised by her boldness, he whispered something unintelligible under his breath that sounded very much like 'easy, Tiger!' and allowed her to take the lead. A second later, they were once again lying on the mattress, their tongues engaged in a fierce duel for domination, their hands roaming all over each other's bodies like a pair of teenagers in heat. Before they realized what was happening, both their trousers were haphazardly discarded on the floor, followed by Dempsey's shirt and Harry's blouse. They refused to break the kiss as they clumsily stripped down to their underwear, his socks the only garment that forced them to pull apart momentarily as he peeled them off in a rush.

Harry remembered the time Dempsey had mentioned in passing how undignified it was to stand in front of someone with whom you were about to have sex with nothing but socks on. The thought alone made her giggle, inevitably breaking the kiss once again.

"What?" Dempsey chuckled, finding her laughter contagious.

She shook her head, trying to hold back a smile. "Nothing," she said, failing miserably at the task.

"Nuthin', huh," he said, sporting a wicked smile of his own. "Hmmm, maybe I outta give you somethin' to laugh 'bout." At that moment his index fingers pressed a magic button right below her ribs and she twitched violently, gasping out in surprise…

Her eyes went wide.

 _No_.

"Lady Makepeace," he sang regarding her through thick lashes. Putting on a perfect British accent, he added, "Are you rather… _ticklish_?"

"Dempsey, no!" she admonished, her warning lost behind a series of anxious giggles. But, as it was to be expected, her partner completely disregarded her plea, digging his fingers once again into that treacherous spot and making her jump, a wave of laughter oscillating between enjoyment and hysteria.

"Dempsey! I'm s—"Another nudge, another fit of laughter. "I'm serious! Stop it!"

"You don't look so serious," he mocked.

Her dismay must have been apparent, because he took pity on her, his hands ceasing the merciless torture and caressing the outer edge of her bare thigh up to the crease of her buttocks. As his eyes roamed over her body, seemingly awestruck, she was all of a sudden aware of how little her lacy brassiere and matching knickers actually concealed. Harry felt a familiar heat in her cheeks as he looked at her like a starving man about to have his first meal in weeks.

"God, you're beautiful!" he breathed out.

 **[To be continued in 19b…]**

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 **Okay, so the next part is sexually explicit, therefore I hesitate to upload it here. However, like we have done in the past, if you are not offended by smut and would like to read the steamier part, you can send me a PM with a valid email address and I will be happy to send you the Word Document. Just remember this site scrambles e-mail addys, so disguise it in a way it doesn't look like one. For those of you who would rather not read that part, don't worry, the next chapter will bring you up to speed as to what happened, without the salacious details.**


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